Prelude to Heaven
by Telcontar Rulz
Summary: We know the man who is the knight. We know the blacksmith who became the knight, but do we know the boy who became the blacksmith? This is Balian's story from his conception until his wife's suicide. Slight romance in later chapters. Rated T to be safe.
1. His Name shall be Balian

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Balian and all the other characters from the movie. (I wish I did though)

**Chapter 1: 'His Name shall be Balian'**

Pale spring sunlight filtered through the gaps in the thatched roof, illuminating particles of dust which floated gently down onto the ground. Inside the cottage, a girl with auburn hair was busy sewing her wedding dress. Her quick needle stabbed into the fabric and came out the other side, pulling the thread behind it. In. Out. In. Out. Her deft fingers did this automatically. She did not even need to think about it. Her mind dwelt on the upcoming wedding which was to take place that summer in the old church which looked as if it would collapse any moment. She was going to marry the village blacksmith, Balian. He was twice her age and a stocky man with sparse hair like the stubble left in the fields after harvest. His fingers were like the sausages her mother made before winter.

Solange sighed. Her breath came out as a puff of mist. She didn't want to marry Balian the blacksmith, but she had no choice. Her family needed the money which he could provide them with. As his wife, she would never go hungry. He owned a plot of land behind his forge and they could grow enough produce to feed themselves. He was also Lord Henri's prized artificer and the Baron paid him well for the cups and plates that he wrought out of metal. She wished she could marry for love, as the ladies in the stories did but none of the men in the village interested her. No, the only man fit to be her husband was Balian, and she did not love him.

* * *

_Five months later..._

The leaves were beginning to grow yellow and cold winds swept down from the north occasionally, signalling a bitter winter. Balian was in another town, selling his wares, leaving Solange all by herself. He did that often and she was glad. He was a kind man but she did not enjoy his company. She had been married for four months now, but her womb remained empty, mainly because she and her husband did not lie together often.

She was walking through the nearby meadows, enjoying the last remnants of summer when a troop of horsemen almost rode her down. She jumped out of the way just in time and tumbled to the ground in a heap of skirts. The rider in the lead stopped. Solange was about to throw acidic words at him but her voice failed her when she saw him. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. His thick curly hair was cropped short and his eyes were bluer than a summer sky. He dismounted and held out a hand to her. She took it without thinking and he pulled her to her feet. His touch sent a bolt of pleasant delight through her body and her face flushed as she felt the urge to hold onto his hand for a little longer.

"My apologies, mademoiselle," said the man. She tilted her head to look up at him. He was very tall. "I didn't see you there, although I don't know why, with that striking hair colour of yours. I must have been blinded momentarily by it." His companions laughed and Solange blushed harder.

"It's nothing, sir," she stammered. What was wrong with her? Usually her words flowed out before she could stop them.

"Do you come from around here, mademoiselle? I don't remember seeing you before and I certainly would have remembered you if I had seen you."

"I live in that village yonder, sir, with my husband Balian."

"Balian the blacksmith?"

"Yes sir."

"Do you have a name, mademoiselle...pardon me, madame?"

"Solange."

"A beautiful name for a beautiful lady." The man swept down in a bow. "I am Godfrey de Nièvre."

"You're related to the baron?" said Solange, suddenly very aware of what sort of man she was talking to. Godfrey laughed at her surprise.

"I'm his son, actually; his younger son," said Godfrey.

"Forgive me, my lord," she said, dipping an awkward curtsey. "I did not know."

"There is nothing to forgive, Madame Solange." Godfrey smiled, flashing straight white teeth. "Would you like me to take you home?"

"No, thank you," said Solange, even though she desperately wanted to accept his offer. A woman of her standing could not afford to be seen riding home with the Baron' son. What would the gossips say? It would be the scandal of the century!

"Very well, then," said Godfrey. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. He kicked his horse into a canter. As she watched the men ride away, he glanced back at her and waved. "Farewell, Madame Solange!" he called. "I hope we meet again!"

Excitement coursed through Solange's body, sending warmth down her limbs. He wanted to see her again. The handsome son of the Baron wanted to see her again! What would it be like to be loved by a man like Godfrey?

* * *

Godfrey rode home in a daze. He had met Venus, the goddess of love, that afternoon, in the form of the blacksmith's wife. What a waste that she was married to that old donkey, Balian.

"I think she's smitten with you!" shouted Roger de Cormier. Some of the others gave wolf-whistles. Godfrey had never liked Roger but he was the son of the neighbouring lord and he had no choice but to be jovial. Roger was the eldest son, unlike Godfrey, and one day he would inherit his father's lands. When the baronof Nièvre died, Godfrey would probably join the army. Whatever he was going to do, joining the Church was certainly not it. The thought of just sitting behind a desk made Godfrey shudder.

* * *

Solange did not see Godfrey again until late next spring. Balian was up at the manor with the new baron, Lord Reginald, discussing extensions to the castle. Lord Henri had died during the winter of consumption. Godfrey went to the forge alone and found Solange sweeping the floor. Her hair was tied back with an old kerchief. "Good day to you, Madame Solange," he said. "Is your husband not in?"

The young woman curtseyed. Strands of copper hair escaped from the kerchief. Her gleaming locks glowed bright orange in the sun, as if they were on fire. "Lord Godfrey," she said. "Balian's not here. He's up at the manor."

"No matter," said Godfrey, sitting down on a wooden bench. He glanced outside. Behind the forge was a garden full of fragrant flowers. Bees and butterflies were busy dipping in their tongues to drink the sweet nectar. "It's a lovely garden," he commented "just like its mistress."

Solange blushed and her face turned a delicate shade of pink. "Thank you," she said.

"Would you like to give me a tour?" said Godfrey, holding out his arm. The girl bit her lip, then she nodded.

"I'd love to," she said, laying her hand on his arm. Her heart was hammering inside her breast. Surely Godfrey knew that Balian was up at the manor. He had come for her. Her Lord Godfrey.

The spring sunshine warmed them. They did not speak and just enjoyed each others' company. A breeze blew, loosening the kerchief around Solange's hair. It fell to the ground. Her hair tumbled in a wild glorious mess about her face and shoulders. She bent to retrieve the kerchief but Godfrey picked it up first. He held it to his nose and breathed in deeply. She reached for it but he held it out of her reach. "Can I deep this?" he asked, dangling it before her playfully. She smiled and it lit up her whole face.

"Why do you want that tatty old thing?" she asked. "Surely there are many more beautifully embroidered kerchiefs in the manor."

"Yes," said Godfrey "but none of them have tied up your hair before."

Solange looked down at her feet and wrung her hands. She desperately wanted to run her fingers through Godfrey's hair but wouldn't that make her unfaithful to Balian? For want of something to do with her hands, she began to twist her loose hair into a knot, but Godfrey stopped her. "Keep it free," he said softly. "I like it that way."

"Godfrey, I..." she began but he put a finger to her lips.

"Shh," he said. "We only have a short while." He brought his lips to hers. His beard tickled her skin. She knew that she should've pushed him away but her body answered to his and she opened her mouth to let his tongue in. His skilled hands gently brushed her hair away from her face. It felt so different from when Balian lay with her. "My Solange," he whispered. "My lady of the forge."

For a moment, Solange thought she knew how it would feel if she had married for love.

* * *

Godfrey left just before Balian returned from the manor. Solange barely had enough time to make herself decent before going back to the forge to wait for her husband. Her body still tingled from Godfrey's touch. He made her feel in a way that she had never felt before. The blacksmith did not seem to discern the difference in his wife and only grunted when she greeted him.

* * *

Two months passed and not once did Solange wake to find the bedding stained with blood. Balian had not noticed but she knew. She was pregnant, and it was not her husband's child. It couldn't possibly be. Balian had not touched her for many months. She could not bear to invite him to lie with her in order to cover up her adultery. After Godfrey's gentle caresses the blacksmith would seem as crude as a charging bull. She could not bear to find the herbs which would cause her to bleed either. She desperately wanted the child; it had been conceived out of love. Driven to the end of her wits, she waited until Balian left on one of his trips to the other villages then went to the manor to find Godfrey, only to be turned away when she asked to see him.

"Lord Godfrey has taken the Cross," said the man at the door. "He's in the Holy Land fighting for God now."

Solange felt numb. Her Godfrey had left without letting her know. She could not even tell him then news that he was going to be a father. She was alone and frightened. As her belly grew, she wore loose clothing to hide it. Soon, it would be too big to hide.

Three months. It was the end of summer and Balian suddenly found that he wanted to claim his wife as his own again. One night, as they lay beside each other on their straw stuffed mattress, he reached over to grab her by the waist, only to find that her belly was swollen with child. Inside, Solange was quaking with fear. What would become of her? What would become of her and her child?

Instead of flying into a rage as she had expected him to, Balian just pulled his hand away. "You will see the midwife tomorrow," he said.

The next morning, she did as he had instructed. The midwife said that it was too late to take the herbs which would cause Solange's body to expel the child growing inside it. Rumours spread through the village. Someone had seen her with Godfrey that fateful afternoon. At church, the priest preached against adultery. He preached to the whole congregation but Solange knew that his words were directed at her. She was ashamed and angry; ashamed that she had given into temptation and angry at Godfrey for leaving. She regretted not taking the herbs when she'd had the chance. Life would've been easier if she had taken them. She didn't want this child anymore.

* * *

Late winter. The labour pains gripped Solange as she prepared the evening meal. Taken unawares, she bit back a cry of pain that had almost escaped her lips. Balian made her lie down on the mattress then ran to fetch the midwife. Hours later, a squalling baby boy with a head of wet black curls as soft as down emerged into the world. Despite not having wanted him, Solange felt a surge of love for this noisy, thing wrapped in swaddling clothes as he was placed in her arms. She unlaced the front of her dress and offered him her breast. The tiny lips quickly found her nipple and the infant suckled greedily. "My little Godfrey," she said as she watched him drink. Small droplets of milk leaked from the side of his mouth.

"He is my son," announced Balian "and his name shall be Balian."

* * *

**A/N: **I wrote this on a whim. Please tell me whether you like it or not. If no one likes it then I won't continue.

Solange would have been about fifteen, maybe younger, when she married Balian the elder. In medieval times, women married really young. Age difference was not a problem. Illegitimate children were a problem however so Balian the younger will encounter loads of problems as he grows up.


	2. A Holy Warrior

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Balian and the other characters from the film. I wish I did.

Fluff warning for this chapter.

**Chapter 2: A Holy Warrior**

The baby was baptized in the old dark church. The old priest had died that previous autumn and the new priest, Father Gavin, was a jovial young man with twinkling eyes and a ready smile. Gavin came from the south and was unused to the cold northern winters. The young mother stepped up to him and handed him the baby who stared up at him with inquisitive brown eyes. Gavin took the little bundle of life and was about to dip him into the basin of holy water when he was suddenly granted a vision.

_He was standing on a jot dusty plain while battle surged around him. He could see a man before him. Sweat drenched his dark curls and ran down his face, creating streaks in his mask of dirt. Blood soaked his shirt where a blade had bitten deep into his flesh. A red puckered scar ran down the side of his face. There was another scar which he could see on the back of the man's hand. It looked as if he had been burned by a branding iron. _

_The man was a fierce warrior. Sunlight flashed on his blade as he defended himself against his enemies. Gavin caught a glimpse of the man's adversary and found himself staring into eyes which reflected the fires of hell itself. He took an involuntary step backwards. A celestial voice was shouting. Balian! Balian! The dark-haired warrior looked up. The Heavens had opened and divine light shone on the man. _

The vision faded as abruptly as it had manifested. Gavin found himself back inside the church, holding the baby boy who had been christened Balian. He gazed down at the child. Could this little scrap of flesh and blood be the holy warrior whom he had seen? Had God sent this helpless, innocent baby down to fight evil? The vision had implied that there would be much hardship and suffering in the child's life.

"Father?" said the baby's mother. There was a look of deep concern on her face. Gavin gave her a reassuring smile, then dipped her son into the cold basin of holy water. The baby began to cry. The sound reverberated throughout the church building.

"I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost," said Gavin over the baby's bawling. The child's mother smiled while his father looked on indifferently. Gavin had only been in this village for a few months but he had heard the gossip. It was rumoured that this child was a product of adultery. His mother had been seen alone with a man who was not her husband nine months prior to the baby's birth. The priest had to admit, the baby did not look much like the village blacksmith. 'Maybe this is where the hardship starts, little one,' he thought 'and it is for no fault other than being born.'

Solange eyed the priest as he handed her baby back to her. He was hiding something from her. How else could she explain the way he had looked at her son? Balian, her husband, glanced at her briefly then looked away. He had been so cold towards her ever since he had bound out that she had gotten pregnant with another man's child.

She dried her son and wrapped him in dry swaddling clothes. His crying had subsided and his eyelids were beginning to droop. She kissed his still-damp curls. He opened his little mouth as wide as it could go and yawned. Then his eyes closed and he fell asleep as she cradled him close to her heart and she knew that she would protect this boy with her life.

* * *

A black and orange butterfly fluttered in the warm golden sunlight and came to rest on a blood red rose. Its thin feeble legs found secure footing on the dark waxy petals and unfurling its long proboscis, it began to drink the nectar. Nearby, a baby with soft dark curls and large brown eyes lay in his basket and watched the insect with utter fascination. A wet glistening trail ran from his mouth and down his chin. He reached out with a tiny pudgy hand as if to catch the creature. He gurgled and the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.

Solange straightened herself and glanced back at her son. Her belly was swelling with yet another child. No rumours surrounded this one's parentage. It was undeniably the blacksmith's. She smiled as she heard the noises the baby was making. "What are you doing, _mon petit bonhomme_?" she said, going over to pick him up.

"Buh buh," he said in his high childish voice. "Gee yah."

She wiped the wet trail of saliva from his chin. Two tiny teeth were beginning to grow. They gleamed white against his pink gums. Another rivulet of drool spilled from his mouth. She kissed his soft cheek. His skin had a unique milky smell. She breathed in his scent. The baby had pulled away her kerchief and dropped it. He watched as it floated to the ground, then busied himself with tangling his tiny fingers in her hair. The colour fascinated him, just as it had fascinated his father, in an entirely different way.

"Are you hungry, my darling?" she asked him.

"Boh," he said, too interested in her hair. His bottom was wet. He had soiled his baby clouts again. Other babies cried when they soiled themselves. She wondered why her son didn't. Then again, he wasn't a fussy baby and he didn't cry unless he was very uncomfortable. She freed his hands from her hair and carried him back to the cottage to change him. On her way, she passed by the forge. Balian looked up from his work, glanced at her belly and gave her a fleeting smile before turning back to whatever he had been doing. Her husband was extremely pleased about this pregnancy. She supposed it was justified; every man wanted a woman who would bear his sons, not somebody else's. It would be good for Little Balian to have a playmate. She prayed that the babe in her womb was a son. Balian would be so displeased if it wasn't and there was a chance that he would take out his anger on Little Balian. Her husband had made it clear that he had no love for the child.

Solange laid the baby on the table. It was dark inside the cottage compared to the sunlit garden. Removing his soiled clouts, she set them aside and wiped his bottom clean with a wet cloth. He kicked his fat little legs in the air and gurgled with pleasure at being freed from his clothing. His large brown eyes were bright and not once did he stop smiling. She could only hope that her next baby would be just as angelic.

* * *

Solange put the vegetables into the pot and stirred them into the stew. Little Balian was sitting on the floor and absorbed in building something with his wooden blocks. Beside him was a bowl of soft peas with a spoon in it. His mother had been feeding him when the water had boiled. The boy looked at the spoon with interest, then without warning, he put his hand down hard on the handle. Peas were catapulted out of the bowl. The baby laughed and tried it again until all the peas were on the floor. His mother had not been watching him and paid him no attention until she felt something hitting her skirts.

"Uh oh," said Little Balian as she turned around. He had an angelic smile on his face and was clapping his hands together.

"Oh, Balian, you naughty boy," sighed Solange. She picked him up, put him on the table and got out the broom the clean up the mess.

"Meh meh," he said, holding out his hands to her. "Mama." Solange stopped. Her son had called to her. It was his first proper word.

"Say it again, _mon petit bonhomme_," she said.

"Mama. Mama. Mama," repeated the baby happily. She gathered him up in her arms and kissed his soft dark curls which were so like Godfrey's.

"Oh my little Balian," she breathed, holding him close. Her entire being was suffused with love for the child.

"What in God's name...?" said a man's voice. The blacksmith had returned home for the evening meal.

"I had an accident," said Solange hurriedly, putting Little Balian down on the floor.

"Uh oh," said the boy again, pointing to the peas. The blacksmith frowned at him.

"You should be more careful," said Balian the elder. "Food should not be wasted like this."

"I'm sorry," said Solange, quickly sweeping the floor. It would be best if her husband thought she had spilled the peas. Her son had forgotten all about the incident and was playing with his blocks again. He had arranged them into a rough square. All the while, he was talking to himself in his baby talk. The young woman sighed. She wished he could stay this innocent forever.

* * *

Solange's back ached from the baby's weight. Her fingers were swollen and she found it difficult to thread her needle. Little Balian sat at her feet, trying to feed himself and getting more food onto his clothes that into his mouth. He gave up, dropped his spoon and held out his hands to her. "Dink" he demanded. He wanted his drink of milk.

"Not now, darling," said Solange. The child looked up at her with doleful eyes. He pulled himself up into a standing position using the table leg for support.

"Dink," he said again, in a more commanding tone. He let go of the table leg and latched onto her skirts. Solange gave up trying to thread the needle.

"Come on then, _mon petit bonhomme_," she said, picking him up, careful not to do anything that might harm the baby in her belly.

* * *

Guillaume was born early next spring. He was much larger than Little Balian had been and more demanding too. Balian the elder adored him. Although he had dark hair like his brother, there was no mistaking him for anyone else's son other than Balian's. Little Balian was weaned earlier as a result because Solange could not produce enough milk for both her sons. At first, the older boy had fussed. He did not understand why he was being denied his favourite drink. However, he grudgingly accepted his semi-solids when his hunger became too intense. He also despised having to share his mother.

Little Balian's vocabulary had grown. His favourite phrase was still 'uh oh'. Ever since he had started walking, accidents had followed in his wake. He was now banned from the forge where dangerous and serious accidents could happen. Solange had no desire for her son to burn down their livelihood.

Guillaume made up for his relatively quiet and angelic brother by being loud and demanding. The slightest bit of discomfort made him screw up his face and bawl. Balian was a proud father and he doted on the boy. "He knows what he wants," he said each time the baby began to cry. "Not like that little runt. This one's going to take over my forge when he's a man."

Solange often bumped into Father Gavin who had baptized both her sons. The priest was genuinely fond of Little Balian and spoke to the boy as if the child could understand him. Sometimes, she wondered if her son did indeed understand what was being said. Little Balian showed the quiet intelligence that many children lacked. He had taken to building more complex structures with his blocks. The other day, he had constructed a rough pyramid.

The priest, for his part, observed the boy closely. He was intelligent and when Gavin looked into those brown eyes, he fancied he was looking into the eyes of a saint or a prophet. He wondered what God's purpose was for the child and prayed for divine guidance. Either God did not answer his prayers of if He did, Gavin did not know.

* * *

_Eight years later..._

A group of boys chased another boy down the dirt path, pelting him with sticks and clods of earth. They gained on him like a pack of wolves. They surrounded the lanky dark-haired boy. "Coward!" they chanted. "Bastard! Balian the bastard!" A bruise was forming on Balian's forehead where a clod of earth had hit him. He looked at the circle formed by his tormentors, looking for a way to escape. His eyes met those of Guillaume's. The younger boy smirked.

"Come on, you sissy bastard!" taunted Guillaume. "Are you too scared to fight? Do you want to run and hide behind Mother's apron as you usually do?"

Balian refused to rise to the bait. Father Gavin had told him that Jesus taught His followers to turn the other cheek if others struck them. The boy doubted that he would be able to do that when the time came, but he was not going to be the one to strike the first blow. The other boys lunged at him. He ducked a wild swinging punch and drove his head into someone's stomach. A hand grabbed him by the hair and tried to yank him backwards. He reached for the hand's little finger and bent it backwards. There was a yelp of pain and his hair was released. A fist struck his face, splitting his lip. He could taste the hot metallic saltiness of his own blood. Someone shoved him into the ground. Balian lashed out with his legs. He felt his foot connect with something. There was a crack. One of the boys screamed and the next thing Balian knew, he was being dragged back to the village by his furious father.

The blacksmith threw the boy bodily into the cottage. Guillaume trailed behind, sporting bruises but looking smug. Solange was inside sweeping the floor and she dropped the broom in shock when her battered son tumbled inside. The boy picked himself up shakily. The blacksmith took up a thick willow switch which sat beside the door, waiting to be used for just such a purpose. The boy backed up against the wall. His long limbs spoke of speed, not strength. Cornered like this, he would not be able to defend himself against the man.

"Balian! What's going on?" cried Solange. It was not clear which Balian she was addressing but the older Balian answered her.

"He broke the baker's boy's wrist," said the blacksmith. He advanced on the boy menacingly and raised the switch. The boy raised his arms to protect his face. The branch came down. He whimpered as it connected with flesh. The blacksmith struck the boy again, this time across his back. The boy tried to curl up to protect himself.

"Stop it, Balian!" pleaded Solange. She put herself between the two.

"Get out of my way, woman," growled the blacksmith. "That boy needs to have good behaviour beaten into him!"

"He's still young..." she began but it ended abruptly in a cry as her husband struck her instead.

"I'll teach you to disobey me!" The man was beyond stopping. Curious villagers had gathered at the doorway to see what was going on. No one made any move to help Solange. A husband had the right to beat his wife into submission. Solange tried to protect herself, to no avail.

As Balian the younger watched this scene unfold, something seemed to snap inside him. He didn't care if Jesus had said to turn the other cheek. He was not going to stand there and watch someone hurt his mother without doing anything about it. Without thinking, he flung himself at the blacksmith. The momentum knocked the man to the floor and drove the breath from his lungs. Before he could recover, the boy had taken the long bread knife from the table and was brandishing it at the man like a sword.

"You will not hurt my mother again," he said. His quiet and determined voice shook with anger and the brown eyes smouldered. For the first time, the blacksmith saw the boy in new light and he could not help but feel grudging respect for Solange's bastard. It took courage to stand up to someone who was twice his size.

Guillaume had hidden himself in a dark corner to watch the show. He was disappointed when he didn't see his older bastard brother get a thorough beating. He caught his brother's eye and looked away. It was fortunate that Balian was not liable to tell what exactly had happened, mainly because he knew the blacksmith wouldn't believe him.

Solange looked at her son in awe. For a moment, she thought she could glimpse the man that he would become; a protector of the weak. This village was too small for the likes of him. It was a cage from which he needed to be freed so that he could learn to fly.

* * *

**A/N: **Here's the second chapter. I hope everyone's enjoying this. Please tell me what you think.

_Mon petit bonhomme _my little fellow —This is Solange's pet name for Balian the younger.

5


	3. The Blacksmith's Apprentice

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Balian or any of the characters from the film. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of putting them back when I'm done with them.

The italicized text is either a time indicator or a French phrase.

**Chapter 3: The Blacksmith's Apprentice**

The church was utterly silent except for the occasional scratch of chalk on slate coming from a room in the back. Light streamed through one of the small windows, lighting up the flat surface on which the boy was meticulously forming his letters, copying from an illuminated text. His fingers were white with chalk powder. A priest sat nearby, watching the boy work. Occasionally he spoke, or corrected something which the boy had done wrongly. Without a word, the boy accepted the guidance, absorbing everything.

In the half-lit interior of the room behind the church which served as the priest's study, the bruises on Balian's face were mostly hidden from view by his bowed head. Gavin knew that there were many more such bruises on the boy's body. The whole village had heard of how he had tried to defend his mother from his father. The blacksmith had thrashed the boy soundly for his defiance until he could hardly sit. Although Gavin believed that a father had the right to discipline his son, no child should ever be subjected to such violence, for they were the beloved of God and the Kingdom of Heaven belonged to ones such as them with their cherubic innocence.

"Maybe this is enough for today," said Gavin. Balian looked up. A lock of dark hair fell in front of his eye. He brushed it away. Gavin could see the bruises clearly now. They were patches of darkness which threatened to taint the purity of the child's soul.

"Will you come for a walk with me?" said Gavin. "The Lord has blessed us with a beautiful day."

Balian nodded and followed the priest outside and to the meadows behind the church. Spring sunlight warmed them. The boy held himself stiffly, still sore from the beating that he had received. "Does it hurt a lot?" asked Gavin.

"A bit," said the boy after a pause. "Father Gavin, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course," said Gavin. Being a quiet child, Balian seldom said anything, let alone asked questions.

"If I hate someone, is that bad?"

"Is this about your father?"

Balian nodded. "I think I hate him. Does that make me a bad person?"

"You are angry with him, aren't you?"

"Yes," said the boy. "Does that make me bad?"

Gavin did not answer him directly. Instead, he began to tell a story. "When our Lord Jesus was nailed on the cross, He did not hate the men who did it to Him," said the priest. "He did not ask His Father to curse them or to strike them down where they stood. Instead, He said 'Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do'."

"So I am bad then," said Balian. "I'm angry at my father."

"I'm not saying that you are bad, Balian," explained Gavin. "It's alright to be angry. We all get angry when people hurt us. We are men, not angels. What is really important is that you learn to forgive. I know it's hard. That's why it's better to turn the other cheek and try and not be angry in the first place."

"I tried, Father Gavin," said Balian. "I tried, but I couldn't let him hurt Mother. I'm not angry at him for hurting me. I'm angry at him for hurting my mother, and now I'm going to go to Hell when I die."

"Nonsense," said Gavin. How could one so young even think like that? "People don't go to Hell for being angry. That's just silly. You are a good boy, Balian. I know you will see the Kingdom of Heaven."

"I'll never see Heaven," said Balian. He kicked a rock in his path bitterly. "I'm a bastard. God doesn't love bastards."

Gavin stopped in his tracks. "Listen carefully, Balian," he said. "It's not your fault and God loves each and every one of us. I know He loves you very much." Of course God loved the boy. He had chosen him to be a holy warrior, a prophet, a saint. Balian was destined to do God's work. The priest hoped that Balian would come to understand that someday.

* * *

The blacksmith lay wide awake. Solange slumbered beside him and the boys slept soundly on the other side of the cottage. His bones ached from a day of work. He knew he was getting old. His joints were beginning to grate when he moved. It was time to take an apprentice. Initially, he had wanted Guillaume to become the next blacksmith but he had to admit that he was disappointed with the younger boy. Guillaume did not have to courage and strength of his half-brother. The blacksmith nudged his wife to wake her. 

"Is it morning already?" she mumbled.

"No," he said "but I have something to say to you."

Solange's curiosity piqued. Her husband had never spoken to her in such a manner before. "What is it?" she asked.

"I'm going to make Balian my apprentice."

Solange was instantly alert. "But I thought you wanted Guillaume to inherit the forge."

"Guillaume can't be the next blacksmith. I love my son but I am not blind to his faults. Balian, whatever he may be, will be able to run the forge. Don't forget, I claimed him as my son."

"What about Guillaume?"

"I'll see if he can join the Church. He won't starve."

Solange felt as if this was the best thing that had ever happened since she'd met Godfrey. Her boys would have a future, the two of them. "I'll tell the boys tomorrow then," she said.

* * *

When young Balian woke up, he knew in his heart that something had changed during the night. His mother looked as if an angel had visited her. Her eyes shone as she beckoned to her son. "Balian, I have something wonderful to tell you," she said, unable to suppress her delighted grin. The boy felt that she was younger, in spirit if not in body, as if some great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. "You are going to be your father's apprentice as soon as you turn ten," she told him. 

"What about me?" Guillaume immediately demanded. He had overheard every word. "I'm supposed to become Father's apprentice. He promised!"

"You wouldn't like being a blacksmith, Guillaume," said Solange, going over to comfort the younger boy. She loved both her sons very much and hated to see them upset. "It's such hard work."

"Then what am I going to do?" he asked as his eyes filled with tears. "Don't you love me anymore?"

"Of course we love you," said Solange, taking Guillaume into her arms and rocking him. "That is why your father is going to talk to Father Gavin tomorrow about training you as a priest. You'll be doing God's work, like the saints and the prophets. You'll be a very important person."

The tears stopped immediately. "Do I get to live in the Church and collect tithes?" asked Guillaume eagerly.

"Some of the tithes," corrected Solange. "Most of it goes to Lord Reginald as taxes."

Balian shuddered at the thought of having to call his brother 'Father Guillaume'. He couldn't imagine selfish, stupid Guillaume as a priest.

* * *

Gavin tried not to look sceptical as Balian the blacksmith asked to have his younger son trained as a priest. If the blacksmith had offered him the other boy then he would have accepted gladly but Guillaume? Woes betide the Church should that boy ever come to serve her. He knew it was not a generous thing to think but Guillaume was the least suitable candidate to be a priest. "I will think on it," he told the blacksmith. The man looked so desperate. 

"Thank you, Father," said the blacksmith, bowing his head. He hoped that Father Gavin would accept Guillaume. They all knew that the boy would not survive a day in the army.

* * *

Balian the younger was walking along the dirt path with an empty water bucket when he heard someone calling his name. It was Thomas, the boy whose wrist he had broken. He stopped and turned warily. Thomas halted about three paces away from him. The two boys regarded each other and then the baker's son spoke. "I heard about what _Monsieur le Forgeron_ did to you," he said. "I'm sorry...about the fight and all." 

"Me too," said Balian. "Does your arm hurt very much?"

"Not anymore," said Thomas. He extended his good hand to Balian. "Friends?"

"Friends," said Balian, clasping the other boy's hand. Thomas grinned. Physically, they could not be more different. Thomas had fair colouring and was a rather plump boy, his development being horizontally orientated rather than vertically. Balian was tall and lean and lanky with long limbs which seemed out of proportion with the rest of him. Thomas' nose was squashed while Balian's was large and long, rather like a bird's beak.

"Where are you going?" asked Thomas as he fell into step beside Balian.

"To fetch water," replied the other boy.

"From the stream or from the well? If you're going to the stream, I daresay we can catch a couple of fish. Well, you can. I can't use my left arm."

"The stream is so far away. I will fetch the water from the well first and then we can go to the stream."

"Agreed. I'll find some string and maybe you can get a few old nails to make hooks. We can make fishing rods and we'll catch us a meal."

"I'll meet you by your father's shop," said Balian.

* * *

Winter. Fat white snowflakes floated down lazily from a cloudy grey sky as the villagers milled about outside the old church after the Christmas Mass. There was much laughter as people enjoyed the festive season. Children ran around underfoot, showing their playmates the gifts which they had received. Some boys kicked a leather ball and chased after it while groups of girls huddled together with their heads close as they shared secrets with loud whispers sometimes broken with bouts of high pitched giggling. 

Balian decided that girls were strange creatures. They were so boring. They never joined in with the boys' rough-and-tumble games and at the same time they seemed to think they were better than the boys, which was definitely not true. And they liked the strangest things. Who cared about dolls and clothes? He'd rather have something good to eat.

He wondered why men married. If it was up to him, he would certainly never marry. It was silly how the knights in the story always fell in love with one lady or another. Balian was sure that he would never fall in love.

* * *

_Seven years later..._

A dark-haired youth worked at the bellows in the forge. Sweat ran down his face. His thin shirt was soaked with perspiration and it clung to his body. His long limbs were out of proportion with the rest of his body. His skin was dark, like a Spaniard's. Balian straightened himself and stretched his tired muscles. He as tall and thin, like a young tree whose roots did not reach deep into the soil to anchor it into place. With his long nose and dark eyes, he resembled an awkward and long-legged water bird of sorts, a stork maybe.

At the anvil, the blacksmith was hammering a stirrup into shape. He picked up the piece of iron and then gave it a few more strikes with the hammer before repeating the process. "What are you stopping for, boy?" he demanded of his apprentice without so much as glancing at him.

"I'm sorry," said the youth. His voice was rough, not yet having settled into the timbres of manhood. Balian turned his attention back to the bellows, wishing that it wasn't so hot. It wasn't that he wasn't grateful for the work. He enjoyed learning his father's craft. It seemed natural for him to make and shape things with his hands. At the moment however, he wished he could go swimming in the cool river instead.

Streams of sunlight leaked through the thatched roof. It needed to be mended before winter came. Another task for Balian, the blacksmith's apprentice. The smith was getting too old to climb anywhere, especially that high up, and there was no chance of getting Guillaume to do it. Balian's brother was 'learning to do God's work' and therefore had no time to do the work of lowly laymen. Balian wouldn't trust his brother to mend the roof anyway. It could fall down on their heads and crush them after Guillaume finished with it.

"_Monsieur le Forgeron_?" came a high clear voice. A girl's voice. A voice which sent Balian's heart racing as if in fear and made his blood roar in his ears. He looked up, even though she had not addressed him. Before him stood an angel. Her hair was braided in two tight golden-brown plaits. She wore no cap, for it was too hot. Freckles lightly dusted her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, showing where she had been kissed by the sun. In her hands, she held two parts of a hammer.

"What can I do for you, Mademoiselle Jocelyn?" said the blacksmith, turning to smile at the girl.

"My father broke his hammer, monsieur," said Jocelyn. "He was wondering if you could fix it."

"Of course, my dear," said the blacksmith. He turned to his apprentice. "Balian!" he called sharply to his apprentice. "Repair this." He jerked his head at the broken hammer which Jocelyn was holding. Balian left the bellows and took the pieces almost reverently, his eyes never leaving Jocelyn's face. He thought she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Her scent was intoxicating. In his nervousness, he dropped the hammer's head onto his foot. He hissed in pain while the girl looked on with detached amusement.

"Tell _Monsieur le Charpentier_ that it will be done by dusk at the latest," said the blacksmith pointedly, ignoring his apprentice's predicament.

"Thank you," said Jocelyn. Balian tried to smile at her but it came out as more of a grimace of pain as he nursed his bruised foot. She turned her back to him and skipped away, leaving him staring after her.

"Well, on with it," said the blacksmith, nodding at the hammer pieces on the floor beside Balian. The young man picked them up and limped back to the bellows. He tried to focus on his work but the throbbing in his foot and the thought of Jocelyn kept distracting him. What was wrong with him? Jocelyn was just another high-pitched, pathetic girl. Why did he feel as if a smile from her could brush away all his troubles? God, he was not in love like some hapless knight in the stories, was he?

The sun was warm on Jocelyn's back. She was glad to be away from the forge. It was too hot and it smelled of burnt things and men's sweat. On her way back to her father's workshop, she passed Guillaume. He was so handsome with well-formed limbs and soft dark brown hair, unlike his ungainly older brother who resembled an under-stuffed scarecrow with a long nose and probably had the wit of one. It was too bad that Guillaume was training to be a priest. If he had not been dedicated to the church then she knew she would marry him when she was old enough.

* * *

**A/N: **Hope you guys enjoyed that. There will be some action later on in the story. I know this is not the confident, slightly flirtatious man that is Balian the knight but he has to learn it from somewhere. He'll get there, eventually. 

_Monsieur le Forgeron _Mister Blacksmith

_Monsieur le Charpentier _Mister Carpenter

Chance Encounter: Pirate Kingdom of Troy launches next weekend! I'm so excited :D


	4. To War

**Prelude to Heaven **

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Balian or any of the characters that are mentioned in the movie. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them.

**Chapter 4: To War**

Balian handed to repaired hammer to the blacksmith for inspection. There was no join that could be seen between the two pieces. The older man had to be impressed. Despite his apparent awkwardness and clumsiness, the boy was good at the craft. The blacksmith nodded and handed the hammer back to the youth. "Take it to _Monsieur le Charpentier_," he said. Balian took the hammer and went off to the carpenter's workshop, wondering if he would see Jocelyn there.

Only the carpenter was present, much to Balian's disappointment. The older man took the tool, turned it over in his hands, grunted and then gave Balian a few coins; the standard payment for repairs. All the while, Balian craned his neck to see if he could catch a glimpse of his angel.

He returned to the forge, so lost in thought that he did not hear Thomas call his name until the other boy ran up to tap him on the shoulder. "What's wrong, Balian?" he asked breathlessly. The baker's son was not built for strenuous physical activity. "I called out to you five times and you didn't hear me."

"It's nothing," said Balian. Thomas probably wouldn't understand how he was feeling at the moment and the blacksmith's apprentice did not want anyone to laugh at him.

* * *

_He was walking in an endless green field beside a graceful long-limbed man of about thirty. On the man's belt was a beautiful sword with a ruby in the hilt. His dark curls reached the base of his jaw. A neatly trimmed beard covered his chin and cheeks. There was a burn mark on the back of the man's hand and a long red puckered scar ran down the side of his face, over his cheekbone and narrowly missing his eye. Balian felt as if he knew this man, even though he had never seen him before in his life._

_The man looked up and smiled genially at the youth. Balian registered vaguely that the man would be termed 'handsome', at least by the girls. "What man is a man who does not make the world better?" asked the man. _

"_I beg your pardon, sir?" said Balian. What was he talking about? The man did not answer. He looked at Balian meaningfully and without another word, he strode away and disappeared into the distance, leaving Balian all alone with nothing but his words...

* * *

_

Balian's eyes flew open. That was the strangest dream he'd ever had. He could still hear the words reverberating in his mind, as if the man was speaking them over and over again. He flung off the blanket. The entire family was still asleep. The sun had just risen. He remembered that it was Sunday. There was no need to work so they were taking the chance to sleep a little longer than usual.

The morning air was comfortably cool. He didn't know what drove him, but he threw on his clothes and headed to the forge. Taking a hammer and a chisel, he began to carve the words from his dream into the side central beam which was the most visible. He was so absorbed in his work that he did not register how long he had been doing it until he heard the church bell summoning the villagers to mass.

Balian hurried to join the rest of the congregation, very aware of how dishevelled he looked with all the wood shavings on his clothes. His family was there, dressed in their Sunday best. The blacksmith scowled in his less-than-presentable appearance while his mother tried her best to dust him off. He caught a glimpse of Jocelyn. For a moment, their eyes met, and then she looked away scornfully, leaving him feeling lost. How he wished he was like the man in the dream that he'd had that morning; so dignified and handsome, and probably a great warrior with the prowess of one of the knights in the stories. Jocelyn would never scorn him. No one would. He was not some rogue's bastard whom the blacksmith had claimed as his own.

Thinking about the man made him remember the words that he had just carved into the central beam in the forge. A man who did not make the world better was not a man at all, in Balian's opinion, but how did one make the world better?

* * *

Solange noticed that her firstborn was very quiet, even more so than usual. He seemed to be immersed in his own thoughts. She was coming to realize that she did not understand him very well at all. There was more to him than what they could see. Sometimes he could seem so wise and yet, at other times, he was as innocent as a child. But of course, he would always be a child in her eyes. More than once, she felt that he seemed trapped in this small village. Her son, Godfrey's son, was made for bigger things. 'Maybe you are longing to fly, _mon petit bonhomme_," she thought as she watched him pray with his head bowed 'but I am not ready to let you go.' She knew it was selfish of her to think this way but she did not want her son to fly off as his father had done, leaving her alone with nothing but memories. At least Godfrey had left her Balian. What could Balian leave behind?

After mass, the blacksmith, the carpenter and a couple of other men went to the alehouse, leaving Balian to escort Solange home as Guillaume was too busy playing priest to take care of his family. The woman took this opportunity to speak with her son in private and find out what was going on under that mop of dark curly hair. "Balian, what's on your mind?" she asked. "You seem very quiet of late."

Balian hesitated. Did he want to tell his mother about Jocelyn? He trusted his mother with all his heart but he was afraid of embarrassing himself. "I..." he began and then trailed off as the beginnings of a blush tinged his face.

"Yes?" pressed Solange.

"I think I'm in love, Mother." Solange heaved an inward sigh of relief. So he was assailed by the same affliction that had affected her years ago when she had first laid eyes on Godfrey, nothing more.

"That's very normal," she said.

"I don't know what to do. I want her to know that I love her, but I dare not say anything. I'm afraid she'll laugh at me, or worse."

"Just be yourself and be honest. Girls like that. I know they do, Balian. I was a girl once myself, a very long time ago."

"I don't think I'm brave enough to do it."

"I know you have the courage, _mon petit bonhomme_. You just have to find it."

* * *

Solange straightened herself to relieve her cramped muscles. Her eyes drank in the lush colours of the little garden where Balian had been conceived. The perfume of flowers filled the air. She could hear the clanging of tools as her husband and her son worked up at the forge. She turned her gaze to a young elm tree. It had grown up with her son. It was a subtle reminder to Balian; no matter how high or far he flew, his roots would always be here and even if he became a great man, his sense of belonging would grow deeper, like the tree's roots.

Coughs racked her frail body. She covered her mouth with her handkerchief. It came away speckled with spots of red. She frowned and tucked it up her sleeve. It had been going on for a while, but she had not told anyone for fear of causing them unnecessary worry. All was as God willed it. If it was indeed as she feared, then no one could do anything for her anyway.

* * *

War. That was the only thing that the villagers could talk about. Lord Reginald and Roger de Cormier had declared war on Grégoire de Bourges over one conflict of interest or another. The peasants did not really understand much about this. What concerned them the most was that each family was required to contribute at least one man to the army. As the smith was old and Guillaume was training to be a priest and therefore exempt from conscription, the task fell to Balian. Solange was reluctant to let him go. He was all that she had left of Godfrey. Spears and swords had no compassion. She did not want to lose her son to a piece of remorseless metal. And she was ill. Who knew how long he would be gone for? Would she live long enough to see him return, if he did return at all?

Balian was conscripted into the army along with Thomas the baker's son and a host of other boys from the village. Some of the young men were eager to prove that themselves, that they were heroes, true men, just like the heroes in the stories. Balian did not want to admit it, but he was slightly afraid. He did not want to kill men. Wasn't 'thou shalt not kill' one of the Ten Commandments? Why did the baronthen make men kill other men? Was it not wrong to kill if someone else commanded it?

He spoke to Thomas about it, but it seemed that the other boy had not thought about such things at all. Thomas looked most comical dressed in a soldier's garb. Although he had grown older, he had grown wider instead of taller. He barely reached Balian's shoulder but he couldn't fit into the uniform and his mother had to adjust it for him. Both of the boys' families could not afford to buy them chainmail.

When Balian returned dressed in his soldier's garb, Solange thought she could see Godfrey's shadow on him. It frightened her that her boy was going out to fight, just as his father had done. He was not ready. She was not ready. "When do you leave?" she asked him.

"Next Friday," he said.

"So soon?" said Solange.

"It's a long march to Bourges."

Solange bit her lip. Why couldn't God let him stay safely at home? She prayed that He would keep him from harm if he was not allowed to stay where it was safe.

* * *

All the families had gathered outside the village to bid the soldiers farewell. Balian kissed his mother on both cheeks. She looked so old and weak. Her hair, once bright and lustrous, was now limp and grey. Years of worry and motherhood had lined her face. Her eyes were tired and full of anxiety for him. He wanted to do something to make her stop worrying about him, but there was nothing he could do. "Go on," she urged him, although it contradicted the desires of her heart. He nodded. The lump in his throat prevented him from speaking. He was walking away from his mother when he glimpsed Jocelyn. Knowing that there was a good chance that he would never come back again, he mustered his courage and before he could think too much about it, he was standing in front of her and staring into her eyes.

"I know it is terribly bold of me," he blurted out "but this may be the only chance I'll ever get as I might not ever see you again." He took a deep breath. "I love you, Jocelyn." Both of them were still and rigid as if they had been frozen into place. Then Balian turned an interesting shade of red and fled to join the rest of the army before Jocelyn could respond.

She saw Thomas patting him on the back sympathetically. Some of the girls were giggling about them behind her back but she thought he was brave to tell her this. She knew he was serious. As she watched the army march away, she realized that he had only professed his love and had not asked her to marry him. She kept on gazing after him long after the army had become nothing but a cloud of dust in the distance and ignored the cruel comments that were being traded about her and Balian; mostly about Balian. Maybe he was not as hopeless as she had first deemed him to be. Indeed, he had the same selflessness that the knights in the stories had.

* * *

**A/N: **Yes, Balian's off to war, and he's told the girl. There'll be some action in the next chapter, hopefully. Please review.

3


	5. A Boy No Longer

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Balian or any of the characters from the movie. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them.

**Chapter 5: A Boy No Longer**

The monotonous sound of marching feet droned in his ears. His muscles were stiff from marching without stopping. Balian glanced at Thomas. His friend was faring far worse than he was. Sweat ran down Thomas's red face in rivulets and he was gasping for breath. He uncorked his flask and tried to take a drink but there was no water left.

Balian handed the other boy his own flask, which still had something in it. Thomas took it gratefully, too breathless to express his thanks in words. Balian wondered when they were going to stop. They had been marching for a very long time. Didn't the knights get tired? No, the knights wouldn't be tired for a long time yet. They didn't have to march and their horses didn't know how to complain in a manner that their riders would heed.

The sun slowly set and finally, they were allowed to rest and make camp. Balian and some of the other boys from their village settled themselves near the edge of the camp. He, Thomas and Jocelyn's brother Arnaud went to dig the latrine pits some distance away from where they were to sleep. Everywhere there were orders being shouted by the sergeants and the captains. The clanking of metal and the snorts of horses continuously reached their ears, reminding Balian of the forge on a busy day as he pushed the shovel into the dark soil.

Campfires were lit and rations were handed out. Thomas looked dolefully at his. "I thought they fed you in the army," he said. Obviously he found the bread and cheese unsatisfactory, both qualitatively and quantitatively.

"They do," said Arnaud through a mouthful of food. He was ignoring Balian. The animosity was mutual. Arnaud had been one of the boys who had made a game out of tormenting Balian when they had been children.

Thomas sighed and tore off a hunk of bread with his teeth. "You know, when I get back home, I'll actually be able to wear normal-sized shirts and trousers. What a disaster. My reputation as a glutton will be ruined."

"I don't think your mother will mind," said Balian, gnawing on his meal. The bread was hard and stale, unlike the soft fragrant loaves that Thomas and his parents made. "You use up a lot of fabric, and your mother has been complaining about how expensive it is to feed and clothe you. Now she'll have one less thing to worry about."

"How are we supposed to fight if we're starving?" said Thomas. There wasn't a crumb left of his dinner and he was eyeing the others' food hopefully.

Balian swallowed a mouthful of pungent cheese and washed it down with water. "You won't starve," he said, patting his friend on the shoulder. "You'll just lose a few pounds and end up looking like me."

"Easy for you to say," grumbled the plump boy. "But this is just going against my purpose in life."

* * *

Jocelyn ignored the whispers that went on behind her back, teasing her about Balian's confession of love. She regretted having ever thought about him unkindly. He wasn't like the other boys who told her sweet flowery nothings to try and impress her. He had told her the truth, stripped of all illustrative language and in return, he had asked for nothing, only that she listened and believed him. She wanted to believe him. It felt good to be admired and loved, even if it was only by a boy whom everyone else considered to be an outcast. 

As she traipsed down the dirt path to fetch water from the well, she wondered what her brother and the other boys were doing. Were they fighting evil men and becoming heroes? Somehow, she couldn't imagine Arnaud and Balian and the rest of the boys from their village as knights in shining armour.

Jocelyn stopped as she almost walked into the blacksmith's wife. Balian's mother was stooped with the weight of the water she was carrying. The years had drained the colour from her hair and the strength from her body. She was so thin and frail, like a newly-hatched baby bird, all wrinkled and weak. Coughs wracked the older woman's body, causing her to slosh water everywhere. She put her bucket down and pulled out a white handkerchief to cover her mouth.

"Madame, are you alright?" asked Jocelyn. Solange looked up as if she had just registered Jocelyn's presence.

"Yes," she replied hurriedly, hiding away her handkerchief as if it contained some dark secret. "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for asking, my dear."

Jocelyn didn't know what drove her but as Balian's mother bent down to pick up her water bucket, the girl took it in her stead. "Let me carry it for you, Madame," she said.

"You're a joy, Jocelyn," said Solange gratefully. "No wonder my Balian looks at you as if you're an angel from Heaven."

Jocelyn blushed and said nothing. She hadn't quite decided what to make of Balian yet; whether she should be angry at him for embarrassing her in front of her peers or admire him for his courage and honesty.

Solange led her through the empty forge. Balian's father was too old to work anymore and the family relied solely on the money that they were given because of Balian's presence in the army. It wasn't much but it was enough for them to survive on.

Jocelyn took in the sight of the forge. It was strange to see it without the blacksmith and his apprentice and with no fire turning the coals orange. She glanced up. On the central beam was some meticulous writing, carved into the wood with care and precision. "Who wrote that?" she asked.

"My son," replied Solange. Her voice, although thin, was full of pride and love for her son.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I've never asked him what it says."

"He has beautiful writing."

"Everything about him is beautiful." Solange was glad that at least someone else appreciated some aspects of Balian. She turned to the girl, who seemed uncomfortable. "I'm so worried about him. It's the first time he's left my side."

"I worry about my brother," said Jocelyn. "It's the same for him. He's never left the village before. I shall pray for both of them."

"Thank you, Jocelyn."

* * *

Wrapped up in his thin blanket, Thomas shivered. The ground was hard and lumpy beneath him and no matter where he lay or how he lay, there was a rock digging into his back. He missed his mattress back at home and the thick comfortable blankets. Beside him, Balian was curled up in a tight cocoon to keep out the cold. He was asleep, despite the uncomfortable 'bed'. 

'He's probably dreaming of Jocelyn,' thought Thomas, sniggering quietly to himself. Balian was disillusioned if he thought he could win Jocelyn's heart. That was one girl whom all the boys wanted to court. She was beautiful and resourceful, not to mention clever. They all saw it as some sort of challenge to convince her to marry one of them. Balian was treated as an outcast by all the others. What chance did he have? Even Thomas' own sister, Marguerite, who was thirteen years old and not very attractive, called him an 'under-stuffed scarecrow', a name, which he knew, came from the object of Balian's affections.

'Hopefully he'll get over it before he is humiliated too badly,' thought Thomas. He knew how cruel and evil girls could be. He had four sisters and truth betold, he was quite frightened of them.

* * *

The first skirmish took place on the borders of the Gregoire's lands. Lord Reginald and Lord Roger had led them straight into an ambush in the dark forest. They first found out about it when arrows started flying out at them from the dense vegetation. Instinctively, Balian lifted his shield. He felt the impact as three arrows hit it and bounced away harmlessly. He reached out for Thomas with his other hand and his fingers closed on the other boy's shirt. "Stay close!" he shouted. "I'll guard your back and you guard mine!" 

Blindly, Thomas obeyed. He was numb with fear and glad that there was someone to tell him what to do. They stayed behind their shields until men burst out from behind the trees with bloodcurdling cries. Thomas screamed in panic as one of them lunged at him with a bared blade. Balian pushed him aside and felt the blade connect with his shield. The impact made his bones ring. He ducked another blow then unsheathed his own blade. Without thinking about what he was doing, he slipped under the other man's guard and sliced the thick muscle in his thigh. Blood spurted out, staining the youth's hand. He leapt back quickly in disgust and in fear. The sight and smell of blood made him feel sick. The other man grew pale and sank to the ground as his life drained out of him from his severed artery.

Balian had no time to be shocked. Arnaud was crying out for assistance. A huge knight was bearing down on him, sword raised. The blade came down on the boy's arm. Arnaud screamed as it was cut from his elbow. Blood came out in spurts in time to his heartbeat. The knight was about to finish him but suddenly, his horse gave away beneath him. Balian had cut the tendons in the animal's hind legs.

Even unhorsed, the knight was a formidable adversary. However, Balian had one thing on his side; speed. The knight was weighted down by cumbersome armour and if he could keep out of the way of his sword, the boy would be fine, as long as someone else didn't cut him down. Balian ducked and dodged, keeping the knight so occupied that the large man didn't notice someone else behind him until it was too late. Someone stabbed the knight through the back. Balian quickly abandoned his sword and picked up the dead knight's much better weapon.

Someone was sounding a retreat. Balian looked back at Arnaud and his bleeding stump of an arm. The blacksmith's apprentice hauled the other youth to his feet by his unhurt arm and dragged him away in the direction that the knights of Nièvre and Cormier were going. Thomas followed behind, his white face streaked with dirt and blood. Miraculously, he was not hurt except for a few bruises and a cut on his cheek.

They cut their way through with inexperienced strokes. Arnaud grew paler with each step they took. If Balian had not been forcing him to remain upright, he would have surely collapsed.

The ragged army finally rested at the foot of a hill which was just outside the borders of Gregoire's lands. Balian let Arnaud lie down. He took one look at the bleeding arm and then tore off a strip of cloth from his shirt to make a tourniquet. He tied it tightly above the wound to stop the bleeding. "He needs water, Thomas," he said. Thomas nodded and handed Balian a flask. Balian uncorked it and put it to Arnaud's lips. The wounded boy took a few sips. His eyes were unfocused from pain. Balian used the remaining water to wash out the wound as Thomas held down Arnaud's bucking body. The white bone glistened against the raw red flesh. Both of them fought the urge to vomit. All around them were the screams of the wounded and the dying.

"I don't like this, Balian," whispered Thomas. "I don't like this at all."

"Me neither," said Balian.

"I want to go home," said Thomas. Balian didn't answer. He closed his eyes. Why did God let men do such terrible things to each other? Why did the stories never say how horrible battle was? There was no glory to be found in war; only death and pain. The youth finally registered that he had killed men today; men who probably had mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, wives and children waiting for them back at home. Men who could've been him. With reckless strokes of his sword he had ruined the lives of many. It was too much to bear.

He emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground. The bitter taste of bile reminded him of this bitter day when he had ceased to be an innocent boy and had turned into a man; a soldier.

A killer.

* * *

**A/N:** Our Balian's growing up, and he's not liking it. Please review! I love reviews! 


	6. In Hell

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Balian or anyone else from the film. I wish I did though.

**Chapter 6: In Hell**

As Balian finished heaving up the contents of his stomach, he felt a hand fall on his shoulder. He glanced up to see a concerned pair of pale grey eyes the colour of steel. "Are you alright, son?" asked the man who had killed the knight. Balian wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"I killed men today," he said in a hoarse whisper.

"The first time is always difficult. You just have to remember that it's either you or them." said the older man. Judging from his armour and livery, he was a knight who was serving under Reginald de Nièvre. "You managed well though. It was a brave thing that you did back there, saving your friend. Many knights would have been hard-pressed to carry out such an act. " He clapped Balian on the back. "Go and clean up. You'll feel better for it. Oh, and you should take your friend to the infirmary tent. The physicians will give him the help he needs."

"Thank you," said Balian.

"What is your name, son?" said the knight.

"Balian."

"Balian? A good name. I shall remember it. If you want any more help from me, just ask for Sir Auberon."

Auberon strode away. Balian glanced back at his friends. "We should take Arnaud to the infirmary tents," he said.

"I'll take him," said Thomas. "You go and wash."

"We're in this together, Thomas. We do everything together." Thomas gave him a wan smile. The two of them half-carried Arnaud to where the wounded were being taken. It was cramped and noisy inside the tent. The stench almost made Balian purge his stomach again if it wasn't already empty. Blood soaked the ground, creating a reddish mud which was being churned up by the men's boots. In the confined space, the screams of the wounded and dying seemed louder. They found Arnaud a spot and laid him there. The injured boy's breathing was rapid and shallow. The knights and other nobles were allotted narrow pallets but common soldiers had no choice but to lay their comrades on the ground.

Physicians hurried around, carrying basins of bloody water and wrapping linen bandages around wounds. Not too far away, an amputation was being carried out. Four men held the wounded man down while the physician brought the axe down on his mangled leg. His scream engraved itself forever into Balian's memory. This was war. This was Hell.

Thomas' face had been drained of any colour that had remained after the battle. His throat moved up and down as he fought the urge to scream as well or throw up. Balian saw his expression. The physicians would not like it if Thomas emptied his stomach here. He quickly ushered his friend outside, and not a moment too soon. Thomas purged his stomach of its contents. It came out in a cascade of green bile and other foul smelling substances.

"What are we doing here?" he demanded hoarsely. "God, why are we here?"

"To fight for Lord Reginald's pride," said Balian. "I think I finally understand what war truly is. All those stories, they were made up to fool people like us; to make us fight and die when the lords want us to."

* * *

The horse whickered as he groomed its coat, removing burs and mud with every firm stroke. Balian liked horses. He admired their resilience and their relatively peaceful way of life. It was so simple to be a horse. They never thought about whether what they were doing was right or wrong. They just did as they were told. The problem was that men were not horses. They had questions. Balian didn't want to be like a horse. He didn't want to live as he was told and die as he was told, but what choice did he have? The lords controlled his life. He had to obey them or face the consequences. He patted the horse's neck. "You have a way with those beasts," said a voice behind him. He recognized Auberon.

"Sir," he said, bowing his head in deference to the knight.

"How is your friend?" asked Auberon.

"Better."

"I am glad. We have lost too many men. Do you ride, Balian?"

Balian shook his head. "I only shoe horses. I can't afford to ride them."

"Would you like to learn? I need to find more men to join the cavalry, and I think you'll make a fine addition."

"What about my friends? I can't leave them."

"What can they do?"

"Sir, Arnaud has lost an arm and Thomas...Thomas is no soldier. I have to look after them. I promised them that I would."

"We are in need of a groom at the moment so perhaps Arnaud can look after the horses. As for Thomas, I remember him as a rather...well-fed boy. Perhaps he would like to cook? Soldiers like good food, as all men do."

Balian could not believe their luck. It was almost perfect. Thomas would be safe while doing something which he could actually do properly and the same with Arnaud. "Very well, Sir. I'll take up your offer."

"I must warn you," said Auberon. "Being in the cavalry isn't as easy as it seems."

* * *

Solange could not stop coughing. It had gotten worse as time progressed. Even her husband had noticed it and he had sent for the wise woman. She had taken one look at Solange and had declared that she had consumption. Now the whole village knew and the blacksmith's wife wondered if this was the retribution for her adultery all those years ago. No matter how she was punished, she would never regret it. She loved her son. Even though he was away and had been so for almost half a year now, her thoughts were always with him. 'Dear God,' she prayed. 'Keep Balian safe and bring him home to me...'

Jocelyn had heard about Madame Solange's condition. The older woman was deteriorating fast and if the army did not return soon, Balian might never see his mother again. She understood how Solange longed to see her son one last time before she went back home to God. This desire kept her alive. The girl had kept her promise. She mentioned her brother Arnaud and Balian in her prayers. She didn't know why, but her thoughts always wandered to the latter when she daydreamed. She wondered what he was doing; whether he was still alive. What would he be like now? Did he still love her? There were so many questions that she dared not voice. If only she knew what was happening.

* * *

It felt almost natural to be sitting atop a horse. Balian now wore proper livery and armour, and he was given a helmet also. It limited his vision but it felt good to know that enemies would have a more difficult time cleaving his head like a melon. The horse beneath him seemed to know what he wanted. Rider and steed moved as one. The animal needed only the slightest bit of guidance.

The other riders glared at him. They resented him as Sir Auberon had personally invited him to join the cavalry and no country upstart was going to best them. One of them gave his horse a kick, causing it to shy and sidestep, ruining the formation.

"What do you think you're doing?" demanded the captain.

"I'm sorry," said Balian. "It's my horse. He's shying." He knew exactly what had happened but telling the entire truth would only cause the others to hate him even more.

"Well, discipline it, or I'll discipline you. Then you'll be more than just sorry." Balian knew what he meant. He'd seen men who'd been 'disciplined' and had no desire to experience it for himself.

The other boys sneered once the captain had turned around. "Why don't you go back to the hovel where you belong, serf?" said one of them. "You don't belong here. Why, you can't even ride."

Balian ignored the comments and concentrated on his horse's movements. Auberon had been right when he had said that it would not be easy to be part of the cavalry. The knight had just neglected to mention why. The others seemed to be intent on making his life hellishly difficult. Only last night, they had put mud in his bedroll and urinated in his helmet while he had not been looking. Complaining would do him no good. They would just torment him more. His only chance was to bear with it and hope that they got bored or learned to respect him. The former seemed much more likely than the latter and both were nigh impossible.

Once again, they were marching on the lands of Gregoire de Bourges. This time, they were making for a small town which was just north of Gregoire's stronghold. Balian could already see it on the horizon. A contingent was waiting for them. The infantry knelt behind their shields, pointing their pikes before them.

Reginald de Nièvre and Roger de Cormier signalled to their army to halt. A charge would mean skewering themselves on enemy pikes. The fortress behind them was weak. There were repairs which needed to be made and the walls looked as if they could crumble any moment. Crows circled in the sky, as if they knew that there would be slaughter and carnage.

Balian's hands were sweaty with nervous perspiration. If the lords decided to attack now, it meant that this would be his first battle on horseback. Controlling a horse was one thing. Doing that while trying to defend himself was another. He sent a swift prayer up to God, asking for his protection. The other men were probably doing the same thing. The only good thing was that Thomas was not going to fight. He was a cook and the only thing he would be chopping up was meat and vegetables.

"We make camp here tonight," said Reginald. "This is the only way that Bourges can send supplies and reinforcements. If they try to do that, we'll fight them. We'll starve this town into submission."

Being in the cavalry, Balian was required to spend nights with his comrades, but nobody said that he was not allowed to visit his friends. He found Arnaud in the infirmary tent. The other boy's colour was much improved and he even managed a smile. "I just remembered that I never thanked you for saving my life," said Arnaud.

"It doesn't matter," said Balian. "I just did what I had to do."

"So you're a knight now, eh?"

"No, I'm in the cavalry. It means I get to ride a horse, not that I'm a knight."

Arnaud was not listening. "Sir Balian. That sounds so strange, but it's good. Sir Balian de Nièvre...the girls will be so smitten once they find out. You're one lucky fellow..."

"Arnaud, did you hear a single word that I've just said?"

Arnaud did not have the time to answer. Thomas came in, bearing a tray of food. "Guess what?" he said, not noticing Balian at first. "Fresh bread for the evening meal today..." He trailed off when he saw Balian. "Jesus, you're a knight!"

"No, actually, Thomas. I'm just..."

"Sir Balian, saviour of the poor," said Thomas, trying out different epithets. "No, that doesn't sound right. Maybe..."

"You two! Just because I'm in the cavalry doesn't mean that I've been knighted."

"It's more or less the same thing," said Arnaud. "No one else from our village made it into the cavalry. Imagine the glory..."

"It's not as great as you think," said Balian. "I'd rather be a blacksmith. War is hell, no matter what you are."

"We know," said Arnaud, displaying his stump. "I'll never be able to take over my father's workshop now that I'm a cripple."

"I hope you don't have to fight, Balian," said Thomas.

"I don't want to fight either," said Balian. He had never spoken anything truer in his life, apart from when he declared his love to Jocelyn.

Three days later, Gregoire's main army arrived. Tension was high in the camp. Many of the soldiers had been spooked after their defeat. Balian gripped his sword. The hilt was slippery from the sweat on his hand. The two armies had gathered. They faced each other, ready to do battle. His horse chomped on its bit, creating foam at the sides of its mouth. The attack was sounded by a horn. Balian dug his heels into his steed's sides. The horse lurched forward in a canter. The sound of hoof beats and war cries filled his ears. The front line troops drew nearer until they collided in a clash of steel and flesh. Balian's vision was veiled by a red haze. He hacked in every direction, intent on staying alive. Blood sprayed his face and splattered all over him. He didn't care anymore. Auberon's words echoed inside his head. _'It's either you or them.'_ Balian knew what he would choose. He wanted to live so that he could go home and see the people that he loved once more.

* * *

**A/N: **I stayed up really late to type this up so there might be more mistakes than usual. Bear with me. I have an exam on biotechnology on Monday and I'm really quite stressed out at the moment. The main part of the battle will take place next chapter. 


	7. Complications

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anyone from the film. I wish I did though. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them.

**Chapter 7: Complications**

The din of battle overpowered everything. The screams of horses sometimes pierced through the roaring of men and the clash of metal against metal as weapons met. Dust and blood was flying. The ground beneath their feet was starting to darken as if the earth had started to bleed, but it wasn't the earth that was bleeding; it was the men who lived on earth whose blood soaked into the soil to feed the plants which would start to conquer the battlefield as soon as the fighting was over.

Arrows flew overhead and fell, embedding themselves in flesh and dirt. They stuck out like spines on a hedgehog's body. There were occasional thuds as projectiles from siege engines hit their destinations —which were not necessarily their targets.

Balian pushed all shreds of humanity and compassion to the back of his mind as he fought as one part of this struggling mess of sweating and bleeding human bodies. He could hear the roar of his blood coursing through his body, almost as loudly as the battle cries of his comrades and enemies. There was no time to dwell on fear or regret as he cut down a man who would have otherwise killed him. The slightest hesitation could end his life. He gripped his horse with his knees and used both hands to wield the sword. It was almost impossible to move through this bog of fighting men.

He caught sight of one of the enemy horsemen about to strike one of the boys from his contingent. Instinct seized him. The enemy was within the range of his sword. Without thinking about what he was doing, he cleaved the man from head to sternum. Blood and semi-solid white matter clung to his blade along with splinters of bone from the skull which still had bits of skin and hair attached.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Lord Reginald surrounded by a dozen of his personal guard and safely isolated from the fighting. Balian paid no head to the nobleman and concentrated on staying alive. He felt the impact as a spear was thrust into his horse's chest. The animal squealed in pain and its legs buckled. It collapsed to the ground, throwing its rider several feet. The rough landing jarred Balian's bones and drove the air from his lungs. He rolled away and scrambled to his feet. A sword had stabbed the earth where his head had been only moments ago.

The youth did not know how long the struggle lasted for but when horns from both sides sounded the retreat, it was almost dark. Bereft of his mount, he trudged back to the camp, dragging his feet on the ground. His muscles ached with exhaustion. He didn't know when it had happened but he had sustained a flesh wound to his back. Every move agitated it. He wanted nothing more than to cast himself into the dark oblivion of sleep and forget the horrors which he had seen and dispensed. As soon as he returned to the section of the camp which had been allotted to his contingent, Balian sank to the ground in utter weariness. He felt as if a spell had been cast upon him to suck out his life. He tried to stretch to relieve tired muscles. The youth rubbed a dirty hand over his equally dirty face and then he decided that he should clean his equipment before he was punished for negligence. He stripped off his armour and outer clothing. They were covered with blood and other matter which he did not care to identify. He winced as he bumped his wound. It was fortunate that he had dodged the worst of the blow and his leather armour had prevented the blade from biting in too deeply. Nonetheless, there was still a wound and since he could not see it, he did not know exactly how bad it was.

He unsheathed his sword and then paled when he saw what was stuck onto the blade. He swallowed rapidly, fighting the urge to be sick. "Balian!" It was Thomas. "God," he breathed when he reached his friend. "You're an absolute mess...and you're bleeding! Is it bad? Is it deep? Does it hurt? We have to get you to the infirmary...What's that on your sword...it's not..."

"I'm fine," said Balian, quickly interrupting Thomas' monologue. His voice was a tired hoarse whisper. "I lost my horse and if I don't see to my equipment, they'll have me flogged." He got up and made for where the water troughs were. Thomas trotted behind him, struggling to keep up with Balian's long strides.

"I heard that the fighting was hard," said the fair-haired boy. "And you saved another man's life, again. They say you fought like an angel of vengeance..."

"They say a lot of things," said Balian, wiping down his armour with a rag. "Most of it isn't true "

"You're not like the rest of us village boys, Balian," said Thomas. "We think about food, sleep, girls. You...you're always saving someone, protecting someone."

"I'm just like the rest of you," said Balian, cleaning the filth from his sword. "I don't think about saving people or being a hero."

"You just do it anyway," said Thomas. Balian looked up at Thomas. The other boy's pale blue eyes were solemn and intense. He had never seen Thomas so serious. They held each others' gazes for a moment and then Balian averted his eyes. He felt exposed. It was nice that people thought he was brave, but he didn't like being in the centre of attention.

He finished cleaning his equipment in silence and then allowed Thomas to lead him to the infirmary. After his first visit, he had no desire to go in again right after a battle, but he had no choice. Even a small wound could become gangrenous and kill him if left untreated. Thomas found him a stool and he sat beside a recovering Arnaud, waiting for a physician's attention. The same physician who had tended to Arnaud beckoned Balian over to where there was an empty pallet. Balian shook his head. "Give it to someone else," he said. "I can still sit upright." The physician raised an eyebrow in amusement. He went over to where Balian was.

"Not many would turn down that offer," he said "and yet you, a mere boy with less than twenty years to your name, you have done so. I can see why Sir Auberon thinks so highly of you." The physician made Balian remove his undershirt. He clucked his tongue when he saw the injury to the youth's back. "You were very fortunate, young Balian," he said.

Balian yelped in surprise and almost leapt off his stool when the physician splashed something onto his back. Whatever it was, it stung his wound, making his eyes water. "Vinegar," explained the physician, wiping the edges of the wound clean. "It stops bad humours from entering your body through the opening in your flesh and killing you." He bound the youth's injury with linen bandages. "It'll leave a scar. You got off lightly."

"Now you'll have a scar to show the girls and make them fuss over you," said Arnaud with a grin. They've named you the Peasant Knight of Nièvre. You need to find yourself a maiden to rescue and fall in love with, oh mighty Sir Balian."

"Have you forgotten?" said Thomas. "The mighty Sir Balian already holds a fair maiden in his heart. He just needs to rescue and woo her."

Arnaud made a face. "I didn't really think of her," he said. "Did you really have to go and fall in love with my sister, Balian?"

* * *

The sun peeked out from behind dissipating clouds. Everything smelled so clean and pure, as if the world had just been bathed. Raindrops glittered like little jewels hanging from the tips of leaves or sitting on blades of grass. The birds were beginning to fly out from their hiding places. Jocelyn glanced about the vastness of the meadow. The manor was a dark silhouette which marred the horizon. She looked up. A stork flew past, its long spindly legs trailing behind it. The water bird made her think of another creature with long thin legs. Balian had been gone for more than a year and although she did not like to admit it, she thought about him almost every waking moment, dreaming of the instance when he would return, still as full of admiration for her as he had been when he had declared his love. With the boys gone, the village seemed as if it had been stripped of life. Previously cheerful matrons were now withdrawn with worry for their sons. Younger women pined for their absent sweethearts and Jocelyn...She stopped to think about it. She missed her brother and Balian, although she would never say that she pined after the old smith's awkward and ungainly son. He was merely someone who had been part of her life for as long as she could remember. His father and her father were good friends. Try as she might, she could not remember a time when Balian had not been there.

Jocelyn was so immersed in her thoughts that she did not notice a band of horsemen riding towards her. In the lead was Luc de Nièvre, the baron's son. Unlike Jocelyn, Luc could see everything in the meadow and he was very interested in the lone figure. He smiled as lustful thoughts filled his mind. "Wait here," he said to his companions. "Make sure no one comes." He kicked his horse into a canter and pulled it to a stop ten paces from the girl, who seemed surprised to see him. Luc dismounted and approached her.

"Good day, mademoiselle," he said pleasantly, but there was a malicious undertone.

"My lord," said Jocelyn, dipping a quick curtsey. In his father's absence, Luc was in charge. The girl was nervous. There had been rumours of Lord Luc's exploits spreading through the villages. She did not like the leer on his face.

"This certainly is a lovely view," said Luc. He was close enough to touch her. She wanted to flee but did not dare to insult him. He would catch her anyway, being so much swifter and stronger. Luc reached out to draw her closer to him. His hand fell on her hip and she jerked away at such an intimate touch. His other hand snaked up to catch her wrist.

"My lord," she stammered. "It isn't proper..."

"I act as baron in my father's absence," said Luc huskily, pulling her forcefully towards him. She collided against his body. His grip was like an iron shackle. "I decide what's proper and what is not." He squeezed her flesh as if she was a lump of dough. She squirmed and struggled in a futile attempt to get away.

"Let me go, you bastard!" she screamed. "Help! Someone, help me!"

"Bastard, am I?" said Luc, enraged. He threw her onto the ground. She landed on her back. Her breath was driven from her lungs. She lay there helplessly, gasping for breath. Luc's weight was immense. She could not push him off. He began tearing at her clothes. "You think you're so proper," he grunted as he hoisted her skirts above her waist. "But I know better. You women are all just whores at heart."

Jocelyn bit back a sob. She had never been so frightened in her life. Where was her knight in shining armour when she needed him?

Jocelyn lay on the ground curled up in shame after Luc left her. She felt hollow and foul, like a rotten log which had been eaten clean by worms. She was sore and bruised from the struggle. Her torn clothes were stained and wet from the wetness on the grass. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself as hot tears ran from her eyes. What would the people in the village say? What would her father and mother say? She couldn't let them know. Luc had threatened her entire family. If she told anyone, she would be putting all of them in danger. But she had to tell someone. What if she was pregnant? She didn't want Luc's child growing inside her like a parasite, taking her honour, her dignity and maybe eventually her life. There was only one person that she trusted enough. Solange had a broad knowledge of plants. She would know what to do.

* * *

_Two years later..._

Balian walked through the wide main street of a town which had surrendered without a fight. His liquid brown eyes darted everywhere, drinking in the sights and colours. The soldiers had been given leave to explore the town. Most of the alehouses were thus full of young men in armour. He heard high-pitched laughter. Children were trailing him, fascinated by his livery and his sword. Vendors had set up stalls along the sides of the street closer to the market square. They hawked their goods loudly. There were so many new smells and sounds. One pedlar had positioned himself in the centre of the street. He had a variety of ornaments on display. Upon seeing Balian, the man beckoned to him loudly. "_Monsieur_, _monsieur_!" he cried. "A pretty bauble for your wife, _non_?"

Balian was about to shake his head when a small and simple silver cross caught his eye. He had no wife yet, but he knew just exactly who would be wearing it. "How much?" he asked, picking up the cross and examining it.

The pedlar named his price. It was all the money that Balian had on his person and he was certain that the little cross wasn't worth that much. He haggled with the pedlar until the price was halved. The pedlar wrapped up the little cross with a rag and gave it to Balian, who tucked it into his considerably lightened money pouch. He gave a wistful smile. How he missed home.

* * *

**A/N: **Nasty isn't it? Life in the Middle-Ages was tough, especially for women, although men such as Balian didn't have such an easy time either. The idea came from Sir Ridley Scott mentioning in the Special Features DVD that Balian's cousin (whom I have called Luc) is a 'raper (sic) of goose girls'.

4


	8. Discipline

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Balian or any other characters from the film. They belong to the geniuses of Sir Ridley Scott and William Monahan.

**Chapter 8: Discipline**

The war had gone on for longer than anyone had expected. Other lords had come to Bourges' aid and although they now had very little chance of winning, Reginald de Nièvre and Roger de Cormier refused to turn back. More soldiers were conscripted from the villages and towns. Contingents of fresh-faced farm boys flooded the camp. Some of them were as eager and excited as Balian's peers had been before they had seen the hard reality of battle. Balian pitied them, these boys who did not know what they faced. Many of them would never go back home to their families. Out of all the boys from Balian's village, only a few remained. Most of them lay on abandoned battlefields with crows picking their bones clean. Little was wasted, which was ironic. The entire war was a waste.

With so many new recruits, more leaders were needed. Although he was relatively new himself, having only been soldiering for three years, Balian was promoted to the rank of lieutenant, with thirty foot-soldiers under his command. He was certain that Auberon, who now had command of the battalion of which Balian was part of, had something to do with his surprising promotion. Many of the men in the cavalry were livid with jealousy at the thought of this country upstart in a position of command. All of his 'men' were newcomers from the villages, boys who were eager to prove that they were men.

Balian fingered the little cross in his money pouch, smiling distantly to himself. He took it out to examine it again. The silver contrasted with his palm with dirt embedded into the cracks on his skin and under his fingernails. His hands had grown hard, even more so than his father's. As he looked at the cross, an image of Jocelyn's face came to his mind. He sighed, kissed the cross and then put it back in his money pouch where it would be safe.

Commotion among his men caught his attention. They were gathered around something. He did not like the look of the situation and he went over to investigate. "What's going on?" he asked the men—boys. They parted at the sound of his voice. Most of them looked at the ground guiltily but some of them dared to hold his gaze for a few moments, challenging him as young stallions challenge the lord of a herd. Peasant Knight or not, he was a new officer and inexperienced when it came to disciplining his men. His presence did not draw respect from the most defiant of souls.

Balian decided to work on that later, after he had seen to the latest problem. For the love of God, he'd only been a lieutenant for a day. At the centre of the circle of boys was one boy, and a very awkward and ungainly one. Filth covered him from head to toe, and he had been crying. The others had been pelting him with mud and horse manure. He looked too young to be in the army. Balian guessed that he could only have been about twelve.

"He shouldn't be here," said one of the bolder boys smugly, echoing Balian's thoughts. "He looks like he should still be sucking milk from his mother's tit." The others sniggered. Without warning, Balian seized the boy who spoke by the front of his shirt and lifted him off his feet. He brought his face close to the boy's.

"And therefore, you decided to take the coward's path and torment him, is that it?" growled the young lieutenant. His free hand groped for the horsewhip which he wore on his belt. Finding it, he unfurled the leather and brandished it before the boy's face. "I won't tolerate such behaviour," Balian continued. His voice was hard. "I could have you whipped for this, do you understand?" Too terrified to speak, the boy only nodded. Balian released him and he quickly scrambled away, out of the reach of the angry officer. Balian smiled grimly and put away the whip. "I believe in giving men another chance," he said. "However, should you reoffend, I will not be so merciful." He turned to the boy whom the others had been bullying. "You, come with me. The rest of you, back to your duties!" There was a chorus of ayes and yessirs.

Balian led the boy further away from the rest of the platoon before turning around to face him. "What's your name?" he said.

"J...Jean-Pierre, sir," said the boy, pulling himself up to his full height. Underneath the layer of filth, his hair was light brown, like autumn leaves. His eyes were pale grey, like a winter sky.

"Why are you here, Jean-Pierre?" said Balian. "You and I both know that this is no place for children."

"I'm not a child," said Jean-Pierre indignantly. "I'm fifteen, just like the others."

"I'm not a fool," said Balian.

"I'm tall enough to be here," said the boy stubbornly.

"You don't look old enough to be here," said Balian. "Look. War isn't fun or glorious or anything like what they tell you in the stories."

"Well, I can't go back. Sir Auberon said..."

"What did Sir Auberon say?"

"I shouldn't tell you. He said not to. I'll get into trouble."

"You tell me now or you will get into trouble. If he blames you, tell him it's my fault. I made you tell."

"He said that you'd look after me. He put me in your platoon himself. He promised that I could be a soldier."

To say that Balian was annoyed would have been an understatement. "Go and clean yourself up," he told the boy, fighting to control his voice. With that, he stormed off to find Auberon.

The older man was in his tent, writing letters. He looked up in surprise when Balian burst in unannounced. "What's wrong, Balian?" he asked.

"What is that..._child_ doing in my platoon?" demanded Balian. His breathing was quick and harsh and his voice shook with fury.

"Child...do you mean the boy who..."

"Yes. I mean that boy. What is he doing here? What were you thinking, telling him that he can be a soldier?"

"Look, Balian, your entire platoon is made up of boys..."

"Yes, but this one's younger than the rest of them! For Christ's sake, he can't be more than twelve!"

"He's thirteen actually, and don't you raise your voice at me, lieutenant. I am the commander of this battalion and you would do well to remember your place."

"You haven't answered my question, Sir Auberon. Why. Is. That. Boy. Here."

A small crowd had gathered outside Auberon's tent to see what was going on. The sound of Balian's shouting had drawn them. They now watched intently to see where the show was going.

"I thought you would be able to take care of them, of all of them actually. That was the only reason I made you lieutenant, of all people. Do you really think we lack the men with the skill and the reputation needed? No. You were chosen because I trusted you would care for those boys as if they were your brothers."

"This is war, Sir Auberon. I'm a soldier, not a nanny! These boys...they're all too young to understand it...to fight. If you really care about them so much then you wouldn't make them become killers so soon!"

"You are right about one thing, lieutenant. We are at war, and we need all the men that we can get. There is no room for sentimental nonsense. I have my orders, you have yours. Soldiers obey. This is an army, and a good army is based on strict discipline. You, lieutenant, have overstepped the boundary too many times. Maybe you need to be reminded of your place. Thirty five lashes of the horsewhip. You may go."

From outside the tent, two guards stepped in to escort Balian to his punishment. They tried to seize his arms but he shook them off and walked out of his own accord, pushing through the crowd. The guards followed him. He stopped where a wooden whipping post had been driven into the ground. The post was a foot taller than him, with a metal ring nailed to the top. He took off his sword, his armour and his shirt and set them aside. His hands were bound to the ring with a thick rope so that his arms were stretched above his head. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, but nothing could have prepared him for the shock of the first lash. He heard the crack before he felt the pain. And then he gasped involuntarily as it hit him like Greek fire. The second lash landed across the first one and drove a small cry from him before he clenched his teeth to force himself to remain silent. However, his resolution wavered. By the twentieth lash, he was whimpering behind closed lips.

It seemed to last for eternity but at last, the lashes stopped falling on him. His hands were untied but his knees were not ready to support him yet. His legs buckled beneath him. Someone helped him to his feet. He looked up to see Arnaud's concerned face and nodded his thanks. The two friends made their way to the infirmary. The physician who had tended to both of them was there. He looked up and smiled when he saw them, but when he took in Balian's pale face gleaming with sweat, his smile quickly turned into a look of concern.

"What happened to you, young Balian?"

"He was disciplined," said Arnaud, easing Balian onto an empty pallet. "Can you help him, Matthieu?"

"Most likely," said the physician. With gentle hands he examined the painful welts on the young man's back. Balian winced every time Matthieu's fingers came into contact with his inflamed skin. In some parts, the skin had split and these openings wept a clear yellowish liquid. When Matthieu touched one of these splits, his eyes watered from the pain.

"You were lucky," said the physician. "Any more and you would've been scarred for life. This isn't the type of scar that you would want."

Balian buried his face in the pillow to muffle his whimpers as Matthieu washed his back with an infusion of herbs steeped in warm water. Even the slightest touch made him cringe. He hated his helplessness, his weakness.

Suddenly, Arnaud stood up. Auberon was here. The knight nodded to the one-armed groom, indicating that he should sit. Balian tried to lever himself up but Auberon stopped him.

"I know you are angry at me, Balian, and I do not apologize for the punishment that you received," said Auberon. "From a military point of view, you deserved every lash. I cannot have my men challenging me if I am to command this battalion. However, I will tell you now that in every other sense, you were right. Those boys are too young to die. And I put them under your command so that they might have a greater chance to live. I hope you won't fail them."

Balian nodded. "I won't," he said in a hoarse whisper.

* * *

Jean-Pierre hovered outside the infirmary tent. He was too afraid to go in for he felt that it was his fault the lieutenant was punished. Curiosity got the better of him, and he peered inside just as Balian walked out stiffly. "Jean-Pierre?" he said. "Christ, you seem to like being in places where you shouldn't be. What are you doing here?" 

"Sir!" squeaked the boy. "I...I'm sorry..."

"What for?" said Balian.

"About the...the..."

"The flogging? That wasn't your fault. I brought it upon myself."

"You're not angry at me?"

"No." Balian gave the boy a reassuring smile and the boy tentatively returned it.

"Does it hurt...a lot?" he asked.

"I'll live," said Balian. "Now let's get back to the rest of them. I don't want any more trouble this week."

* * *

**A/N: **It wasn't me! (lunges at plot-bunny who hops a few feet away and starts to clean his whiskers). It was him! He made me do it! I wanted to write about trebuchets but he made me write about this! 


	9. Engines of War

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Balian or any of the characters from the film. I wish I did but I don't.

**Chapter 9: Engines of War**

When Balian returned to his platoon, none of the boys were doing what they were supposed to be doing. Someone had made a rough leather ball and they were kicking it around. When they saw him, they stopped and looked rather guilty. The boy whom he had 'spoken' to was nowhere to be seen. "When I tell you to attend to your duties, that is exactly what I expect you to be doing," said Balian, trying to adopt the tone which he had heard commanders use. He looked at each and every one of them, trying to show that he was serious. "You are soldiers, and soldiers obey orders. I know you are young and not used to such strict discipline, but this is war. When you are on the battlefield, everything depends on order, and discipline, including your lives."

"But sir, we're here to be soldiers, not labourers," said one boy. "I want to be a hero, like the soldiers in the stories." He was so earnest and innocent that Balian could not find it in himself to be angry with the boy for defying him.

"Do you really believe that war is really what the stories tell you it is?" he said. "Stories are stories, nothing more. Soldiers have to do everything for themselves, and fight for their lords. The first thing you need to learn if you really want to be a soldier is how to obey orders." He glanced up at the sky. It was almost dark. He was tired and his back hurt, although he would never let the boys know about that. It would do nothing for his prestige. "Now, back to what you were supposed to be doing. Jean-Pierre, you come with me." There was no way he was about to leave the youngest boy with the others.

The boy trotted behind him. "Sir?" he said. "Are you alright?" He had noticed that the lieutenant's face was still rather pale.

"I'm fine," said Balian "or will be. Do you know how to work with horses?"

"Me? Sir...I...I'm scared of horses."

Balian looked at him. "Scared of horses? What's there to be scared of? You can't be a soldier and be afraid of horses. Come, I'll show you how to work with my horse."

* * *

Another battle was inevitable. If the combined forces of Nièvre and Cormier did not attack Bourges soon, Gregoire's allies would be able to organize themselves and create a formidable army which would then drive out the invaders. One mistake would make the hunter become the hunted. Balian knew that 'his' boys were not ready. They had only just learnt how to synchronize their movements. Jean-Pierre worshipped him. The boy, with Balian's help, had gotten over his fear of horses. He was now in charge of taking care of Balian's horse.

They had now come before a large fortress with high walls of grey stone and a heavy gate reinforced by iron bindings. Reginald ordered them to make camp outside the fortress, in the hope that they could starve the inhabitants into submission. However, scouts reported that the fortress had enough supplies to last them for five months and the reinforcements would arrive in three at the most.

Balian stood to one side close to the wall of the tent, watching Auberon discuss the construction of siege engines with the engineer, Jacques. "We don't have the manpower to build these and work them," Jacques was saying. "I need skilled craftsmen, and there aren't enough of those in this army. Who's going to make the parts that are needed? There are not enough farriers, and I lack someone to aid me with overseeing the construction."

"Truly?" said Auberon. He looked up and waved Balian over.

"Sir?" said Balian.

"You said you were a blacksmith's apprentice, yes?" Auberon asked him.

"That is true, sir."

"There you go," said Auberon to Jacques in a satisfied manner. "You have an assistant now."

"I said I need skilled craftsmen," said Jacques. "And you burden me with an _apprentice_?!"

Auberon ignored the engineer. He pointed to the slate board on which they were drawing. "What do you make of this, Balian?" he said.

Balian peered over Auberon's shoulder at the diagram. It was a rough sketch of a catapult, which required the strength of ten men to power its wooden arm so that it could launch rocks and other heavy missiles into and over the high walls. He frowned.

"Well?" said Auberon.

"It's a well designed catapult and I can probably make the parts needed if I had the right equipment," said Balian carefully. "But it takes an awful lot of men to power it..." He looked at Auberon and the chalk that the knight held. "May I?" he asked, holding out his hand for the chalk. The knight gave him the piece of chalk. Quickly, Balian drew a sketch of another catapult. "If we power it using weights instead, we'll have more men who can fight." He looked to the two older men for approval.

"Yes, yes," Auberon was saying. "I like this."

"Not bad for a blacksmith's apprentice," said Jacques grudgingly.

* * *

The sound of hammers on metal and wood surrounded him. It felt good to be without his constricting armour. Balian watched as the trebuchets were being assembled according to the plans he had drawn. He felt a satisfaction in knowing that for the first time in three years, he was building something instead of wreaking destruction on everything in his path. He walked amongst the craftsmen, offering guidance and suggestions when they asked him. It was strange to be in charge. Some of the men were much older than him and yet he was treated as the one in charge, second only to Jacques and the commanders.

His boys were there, learning how to use these siege engines. Some of them were learning the skills of metalwork and carpentry, while others ran errands for the craftsmen, fetching equipment, materials and food. Many of them were excited about the prospect of their first battle, but Balian knew that they would be far from the frontline and relatively safe. His platoon's task was to man the trebuchets.

Within three weeks, ten trebuchets had been constructed to a standard which satisfied both Balian and Jacques. "You know, boy," said the engineer "you're welcome to join me any time you want. I need more men like you."

"I'm only here because I have to be, Monsieur Jacques," said Balian. "If I had any choice, I'd be back home in my father's forge, making ploughs and scythes instead of siege engines."

Jacques laughed and clapped the younger man soundly on the back. "Balian, Balian, you have a soldier's appearance and yet you are always the peasant at heart," he said. "No wonder they call the Peasant Knight."

Reginald was ecstatic when he saw the trebuchets. Each had a long wooden arm held down by a hook-shaped piece of iron. A large weight dangled from the other end of the arm. The arm was released when the trigger was hit with a hammer, allowing it to fling huge missiles over the wall.

"Such skill, and in one so young," said the baron when both Auberon and Jacques both gave the credit to Balian. "Balian, you are the blacksmith's son?"

"His oldest son, sir," said Balian, not looking up into Reginald's face.

"Yes, yes. I must remember you." Reginald laughed. "Prepare the army. We launch the attack at daybreak!" he shouted as he walked away.

"Sir?" said a young voice behind Balian. He turned to see Jean-Pierre. The boy's eyes were shining. "Are we going to fight tomorrow? Truly?"

"Yes," replied Balian. "We are."

'And God forbid that you should spill any blood,' thought the lieutenant.

* * *

The first rocks hit the walls with dull thuds. They seemed to fall in slow motion. Dust showered the ground. The soldiers outside the walls cheered. There was another clank of metal as another trigger was hit by a hammer. The arm flew upwards, flinging its missile high into the air. This one flew over the wall. There was a panicked shout as the jar of flaming material landed and smashed, sending fire everywhere. "Fire!" shouted Auberon. "Give them another volley!"

Rocks and jars of liquid fire hit the walls simultaneously. The ground shook with the impact. "Now, ladders!" cried Auberon. The men rushed forwards, carrying long siege ladders. As they neared the wall however, the defenders started retaliating with their own catapults. Although their range was shorter, they nonetheless hit the soldiers who were approaching the fortress. There were screams as some of them burst into fire. The ladders were dropped. Men rolled on the ground, trying to put out the flames which were eating them alive. The soldiers who had not been hit charged on. A ladder was propped up against the wall. Men swarmed up it, like a trail of ants. A second ladder followed. And then a third, a fourth, a fifth.

The defenders threw rocks and wood down on the heads of the attackers. Men fell off the ladders in the dozens before they were even halfway up the ladders. Their bodies landed with sickening thuds at the base of the wall. They lay there, like broken dolls which had been abandoned by small children. More men surged forwards, urged on by their commanders. The waste sickened Balian. He noticed that none of the commanders were charging within the range of enemy catapults and yet they were making their men do so. Didn't they have any compassion for their soldiers? Many of the men who fell were in fact mere boys. They were new from the villages and knew nothing about war. They did as they were told, and died as they were told, each believing that he was laying down his life for a noble cause. How many mothers and fathers waited at home for sons who would never return?

The first day of the siege was unsuccessful, even with the trebuchets. And reports said that the first of the reinforcements would be there in a week. Knowing that the arrival of more enemies would mean their failure, Reginald sent Auberon's contingent to prevent the reinforcements from getting close enough to aid the defenders of the fortress. Balian and his platoon of boys went with them, as they were under Auberon's command. Having not seen battle close up, they were excited to be able to prove that they were men at last. "I've had enough of using a coward's weapon," he heard one boy say. "Now I'll finally be able to use my sword!"

* * *

The narrow valley was silent except for the clip-clop of horses' hooves on rock and the expectant hushed whispers of the men. The scrub growing in the valley was yellow and dry from a lack of water. In this mountainous region, this was the only path which Gregoire's reinforcements could take in order to go to his aid. The Balian felt uneasy, as if he was having a premonition about something. His hand wandered to the hilt of his sword, although he kept a tight grip on his reins. And then, without warning, arrows flew down at them from the top of the hills. One arrow planted itself in the neck of the man who had been beside Balian. The lieutenant drew his sword and used his shield to the best of his ability.

"It's a trap!" he heard Auberon shout. "Retreat! Retreat!"

Torches were thrown down by the enemy, lighting up the dry vegetation. The fire spread quickly and encompassed them. Smoke filled Balian's nostrils and stung his eyes. He coughed involuntarily to clear his lungs but it was no use. Squinting, he peered with watering eyes through the haze to try and find a way out. His horse was snorting and sidestepping. Its ears were laid back. The animal tossed its head and squealed in fear. No soothing words from his rider could calm him down.

And then he saw it; a gap in the enemy soldiers and the ring of fire. "Follow me!" he shouted. He spurred his horse on, hoping that someone had heard him. Enemy soldiers saw him charging through, and they tried to stop him. He hacked them down with his sword. His mind was on only one thing; survival. Behind him, he heard the cries of other men who had managed to break through the enemy ranks. He didn't know which direction he was going in. All he wanted was to get away from the massacre which was now taking place. He was glad that Thomas and Arnaud were not here. They were safely back with the main army.

The men ran, not stopping until they could not hear the battle anymore. The sky had grown dark. Exhausted, Balian halted their flight near a small stream beside where a forest of fir trees grew. He almost tumbled from his saddle as he dismounted. "Sir?" said Jean-Pierre. His pale face was covered with streaks of soot. Balian presumed that his face was in more or less the same state. Against all odds, the boy had survived. "Where are we?"

Balian looked around him. Nothing looked familiar. There were no landmarks, nothing to indicate their location. "I don't know," he said bluntly. Jean-Pierre's face fell. "How many men do we have?" asked Balian.

The boy did a quick calculation. "About thirty, sir," he said.

Thirty men out of an entire contingent. What were they going to do?

* * *

**A/N: **Ooooh! Aren't I evil? Please review! 


	10. Mistakes

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything from the film. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of putting them back.

**Chapter 10: Mistakes**

Thomas glanced westward, wondering what his best friend was doing. Dried dough caked his hands. He had been baking bread; not the soft fragrant loaves which he preferred, but the hard dry army fare which kept well and had to be soaked in water before it could be eaten. He sat on a tree stump and started picking the dough from beneath his fingernails.

A whinny and a shout made him look up. A bedraggled man, with torn livery and covered in soot and blood had ridden in. He fell out of his saddle. The sentries caught him. Thomas' curiosity piqued and he wandered over to see what was going on. The man was blabbering about something. Thomas could hear the words 'fire' and 'ambush' and 'death'. The sentries who had intercepted the rider looked at each other, and then one of them left, presumably to inform one of the commanders.

"Dead," repeated the man who had ridden in. He was covered in burns. His face was barely recognizable. "All dead. There was fire, and blood. And then, there was nothing. I rode, rode hard...didn't look back. Men screaming...dying...no more, no more!"

"What do you mean, they're all dead?' demanded Thomas, unable to contain himself. "What about Sir Auberon, and Balian? Where are they? What happened to them?"

The rider looked at him with one bloodshot eye. The other was a mass of clotted blood. "Sir Auberon died...shot...and the Peasant Knight..." The man's voice trailed off. His one good eye closed for a moment, and then slowly opened again. "I don't know," he said, licking cracked and bleeding lips with a parched tongue. "Fire surrounded us. They were everywhere, shooting, cutting. There was no way out."

"Dead?" said Thomas. He shook his head. It wasn't possible. No, not dead. Not Balian. Balian couldn't be dead. If this man could survive, so could Balian. But where was he? The cook's legs moved of their own accord. Balian was like a brother to him. He couldn't contemplate losing his best friend.

"Thomas!" he heard Arnaud shout. The one-armed groom's face was paler than usual. "I bumped into the sentry. What happened?"

"Sir Auberon's dead," said Thomas. "They were ambushed."

"Ambushed?" said Arnaud. "But what about Balian?"

Thomas shook his head. "Christ," said Arnaud. "You don't mean...surely, it can't be..."

"I don't know," said Thomas. "No one knows. I pray to God that he's alive."

* * *

Trees and hills; that was all Balian could see. That, and the pale lonesome face of the moon, the same moon which watched his friends and his family right now. How far he was from them. He didn't know where he was. The men looked to him for answers. He couldn't offer them any. He leaned back against the trunk of a tree. His armour lay on the ground beside him. The rough ridges of the bark dug into his back through the thin fabric of his shirt. He could hear snores coming from the men. With his eyes half-closed, he listened to the sounds of the night. He dared not sleep, just in case they were attacked. However, his body refused to obey him. His eyes closed.

The next thing Balian knew, someone was shaking him and the sun was glaring down. He opened one eye. Jean-Pierre stood over him. "Sir," he said. "What do we do now? Are we lost?"

Balian stood up stiffly. "Yes," he said bluntly. "We are." There was no point in lying to them.

"How do we get back home?" demanded someone else.

"If God intends for us to return home, he will lead us back," said Balian. "If not...all is as God wills it."

"I admire your faith, lieutenant," said a soldier whom he did not recognize. "But there is the problem of rations, as well as the enemy. Hunting is fine during the summer, but summer doesn't last forever. What if the enemy attacks us? We can't defend ourselves."

"Why would the enemy want to attack thirty bedraggled men?" said Balian. "That would be a waste of time on their part. We're worth nothing to them. As for supplies, we gather as much as we can during the summer months. We'll dry meat, berries, anything that can be preserved. I plan to be out of here before winter comes but if things don't go according to plan, at least we'll be prepared."

* * *

It had been almost a month since the news of Auberon's death had reached Reginald de Nièvre. There were no signs of survivors from the battle. All that remained of the contingent were charred bones. Balian's friends had given up the hope of ever seeing him again. In their minds, both Thomas and Arnaud were preparing ways of conveying the news of his death to his family. The main difficulty was telling his mother about it. How were they to tell Solange that her beloved firstborn was lying with a heap of charred corpses? Neither of them knew.

The destruction of Auberon's entire contingent did do one thing. It convinced Reginald de Nièvre and Roger de Cormier that they could not win the war, and so the lords planned to retreat back to their own lands.

A month and a half after Auberon's defeat and Balian's disappearance, four years since the boys had left to fight, they returned home. Their families rushed out to greet them. There were many tears, some of relief and many of grief. Arnaud caught sight of his parents. A grin lit up his face. He ran to them. "Papa!" he cried, feeling like a little boy once more. "Maman!" The carpenter turned. His face was lined, like a piece of wood left out in the elements for too long. When he saw his son, he didn't say anything. He couldn't. Instead, he took Arnaud in his strong arms and held him tightly. Arnaud's mother did not lack words. She threw herself at him, weeping.

"Oh, my boy," she said, drinking in the sight of him. "You're so thin! And look at you! What happened to your arm? Oh, darling, my poor darling."

"I was lucky to have only lost an arm," said Arnaud. "Many of the other boys didn't make it back. I have Balian to thank. He saved my life."

"Balian?" said the carpenter. "The blacksmith's boy? I remember him to be an awkward thing; all arms and legs and not a scrap of meat on him. What's that your sisters called him...ah, yes; an under-stuffed scarecrow."

"Don't talk about him that way," said Arnaud sharply, suddenly defensive of his absent friend. "He's a hero, the Peasant Knight. Without him, I'd be dead."

Arnaud's father was rather taken aback by his son's change in attitude. He remembered that Arnaud had once enjoyed tormenting Balian.

Arnaud looked around the sea of faces. Thomas had reunited with his family. The baker's wife seemed to be lamenting the fact that her son had not grown much vertically. "Where's Jocelyn?" asked Arnaud.

"She's with the blacksmith's wife," said his mother. "Solange has consumption, and I don't think she will last through the winter. She really misses that boy of hers. Where is he, by the way?"

"I...I have to go..." said Arnaud. Before his parents could say anything else, he had gotten Thomas' attention and they were both heading towards the forge.

* * *

Solange's bones ached. She couldn't breathe properly. Every intake of breath lit the smouldering fire in her chest. She shivered, even though Jocelyn had told her that it was warm. The gloom of the cottage seemed to close in on her. She was glad that the girl was with her, to keep her fears at bay. Balian had been right. The girl was an angel. The blacksmith's wife heard voices outside. "What's going on?" she whispered.

"The soldiers have returned," said Jocelyn, barely hiding the excitement in her voice.

"The...the soldiers?" Solange's breathing quickened as she grew excited. She tried to lever herself up with shaking arms. "My Balian..."

"Lie still, Madame," said Jocelyn. "I daresay he'll burst in through the door soon. He loves you so much."

"He loves you too, my girl," said Solange, settling back down on her mattress. Jocelyn was glad that the darkness of the cottage hid the colour of her face. It was awkward, talking about Balian's feelings for her. There had been rumours in the village that she had been deflowered. Someone had seen her returning that fateful day. She wondered what Balian would think if he knew. If he still loved her, she would marry him. A disgraced woman had very little choice.

She was saved from having to say anything when the door opened. The old smith came in, leading two young men. Neither of them was his son.

"Madame," said the taller of the two. "We have something to tell you."

"I'll leave you to it," said the old smith, going out of the cottage and closing the door behind him.

As they drew closer, Jocelyn recognized the speaker as her brother Arnaud. He had grown older and one empty sleeve hung limply by his side. Her hand flew to her mouth. She was too shocked to do anything except stare.

"Balian?" said Solange.

"Balian's a hero," said Thomas.

"Where is he?"

Arnaud and Thomas looked at each other. How were they going to tell this obviously dying woman that her beloved son had gone before her?

"Say something, Arnaud," said Jocelyn, her hazel eyes wide with intense desperation.

"He...he's with God and the saints," said Arnaud, looking at the ground. He heard a sharp intake of breath form Jocelyn. Balian's mother was strangely quiet as the news slowly sank in.

"My son," she whispered. Her eyes were distant and unfocused. "My little boy..."

She felt numb, except for the hollow pain in her heart. Her Balian, her solemn and innocent son, was gone, cut down by ruthless bits of metal. "What happened?" she asked. Her voice shook.

"Balian was a brave man," said Arnaud. "He lived to defend others, even if it meant sacrificing himself..."

"The commander had him flogged once from trying to defend some boys," cut in Thomas. As soon as that left his mouth, he regretted it.

"My baby boy...flogged?" said Solange. Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe through the emotion which seemed to wind itself tightly about her neck. Jocelyn glared at Thomas. Balian's mother didn't need to know that her son had been beaten like a beast of burden. The girl's heart ached for the older woman, for the selfless Balian, and for herself. The boy who had loved her was gone, and she hadn't even had the chance to tell him that she did not scorn him anymore.

"We called him the Peasant Knight," said Arnaud. "If he had not been common born, he would surely have been knighted. He was better than any of the heroes in the stories."

"Did he receive the proper rites?" whispered Solange.

Thomas started to speak before anyone could stop him. "The scouts found only charred bones," he said. "We couldn't...ow!" Jocelyn had stepped on his foot, hard, but the damage was done.

"Please," said Solange. "I wish to be alone." The three young people looked at each other, then down at the older woman. Jocelyn nodded finally, and she ushered the two young men outside.

"How could you say such things?" she demanded of them, glaring especially at Thomas. "She didn't need to know that he was whipped...or...or that you couldn't find his body and give him a decent burial."

"What? Would you have me lie?" said Thomas.

"Well, yes! It would have been better!"

"Lying is a sin, Jocelyn," said Arnaud.

"And breaking an old woman's heart is not?" demanded his sister. "She had no need to know all those things. She loves him, and she already grieves for him. Do not cause her more pain by adding more horror to Balian's story."

"It pains me too!" said Thomas. His voice quavered. "He was my best friend, almost a brother. He saved my life during our first battle! Do you really expect me to think clearly in a time like this?"

"Peace," said Arnaud. He could sense that things were about to get ugly. His sister had a fiery temper. "I don't think he would have wanted us to argue like this."

"No, he wouldn't have," agreed Thomas, wiping the moisture from his eyes with his sleeve. "He hated arguments."

"I shall go and see Bishop Gavin now, and ask him to say mass for all those who...didn't come back," said Jocelyn quietly. Her legs felt as if they were made of wood as she went to the church. All she could see was the look on Balian's face when he had declared his love for her. It felt so unreal. She couldn't believe that he was dead. Almost any moment, she expected to see him running up the dirt path to the forge, with his hair looking as if a rat had decided to nest in it. The hammer and anvil remained silent.

* * *

Balian gazed at the silver cross in his hand. He knew every bit of it. The young man smiled as he imagined the face of the young woman to whom he would give this cross. A leather thong now dangled from the small cross. He kissed it and replaced it where it belonged; around his neck and resting on top of his heart. Nearby, a deer was being roasted on a spit over a fire. Fat and juices dripped into the flames, making the fire sizzle. They had found plenty of game in the woods. Strips of meat were being smoked, hanging from branches.

Jean-Pierre and some of the other men were looking at him with grins on their faces. "What?" he asked them.

"What lucky girl has claimed your heart, lieutenant?" asked a soldier by the name of Marc.

"What makes you think that?" asked Balian. His face began to grow hot.

"You're blushing, sir," said Jean-Pierre. "And you had that dreamy look on your face when you were looking at that cross. I don't think you were praying." The other men laughed.

Balian tried to change the subject. "Is the deer done? I'm starving."

* * *

**A/N: **Well, Balian's friends sure aren't too intelligent— Thomas isn't anyway. Please review. The war's over now. Balian just doesn't know. 


	11. The Grim Reaper

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Balian or any of the characters/elements from the film. I'm just borrowing them without permission.

**Chapter 11: The Grim Reaper**

"So, lieutenant," said one of the older soldiers. "Tell us about your girl. Are you married yet?"

"Is she pretty?" asked someone else.

"She has to be, or else how can she suit our handsome young lieutenant here?" The men laughed, and Balian's face grew red.

"They're going to produce some fine sons," said another man. There was whistling and cheering. Balian had had enough. He got up and strode off deeper into the woods. His face was so hot that he felt as if he was back in the forge.

* * *

The sky was stained with hues of reds and oranges as the sun sank beneath the horizon. The days were getting shorter and the leaves were beginning to change colour. Balian shivered a little as the cold breeze penetrated the thin fabric of his shirt. He wondered if they would be able to survive a winter out in the wilderness. They were not well-equipped enough, although he was never going to tell the men that. In the distance, he could see his scout returning. 

The man ran towards him. "Lieutenant!" he shouted with a grin plastered all over his sweaty face. "Good news! I found out that we're nine miles northwest of Bourges!"

"Alleluia!" cried Balian. "Thank the Lord! We can rejoin the army!"

"Better yet, the war's over," said his scout. "We can all go home."

Balian could not believe what he was hearing. It was over. The ordeal in Hell was over. "Tell the men," he said.

"I think it should be you who gets to deliver this good news, lieutenant," said the scout. "You're the one who's been supporting us through this and leading us."

"You all did your bit," said Balian, but he went towards the clearing where the men were skinning a deer. He took a deep breath. "My comrades, I have some news to tell you."

They stopped everything that they were doing to look at him with open curiosity.

"We're going home," he said. There was silence as the men tried to guess whether he was jesting or not, and then the entire camp erupted into cheers. They threw their helmets up into the air and some of them started singing hymns or songs from their homes.

Only Jean-Pierre remained silent. Balian noticed and he became concerned for the boy. Why was he not happy to be going home? "Jean-Pierre?" he said. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," said the boy.

"You don't look fine to me," said Balian. "What's wrong? Aren't you happy you're going to see your family again?"

"They'll just send me back to the monastery," said the boy. "I don't want to go back there. It's Hell. The monks, they do horrible things and if we try to resist, they beat us..." The boy's voice cracked and he began to sob. "No one knows about it. No one would believe me. I tried to run away once, but my father sent me back..." Everything poured out of the boy like a torrent of water bursting from a broken dam. Balian felt ill as he heard of the atrocities of the so called 'holy men'.

"I won't let them hurt you again," he said, once the boy had finished.

"How?" said Jean-Pierre.

"Because you're not going back. I'll be needing an apprentice soon."

"You mean I'm going to learn to be a blacksmith? Do you think I can?"

"Do you?" Balian smiled.

"Oh yes," said the boy, wiping away his tears with his sleeve. He was grinning. "I'll be your apprentice, sir. I'll be the best apprentice you'll ever have!"

Balian laughed. "Well, get ready to leave then."

* * *

Life in the village was almost back to normal. Many of the returned soldiers had resumed their professions. Arnaud was trying to devise tools which allowed him to work with wood with only one hand. "I wish Balian was here," he muttered. "He'd know what to do." 

"We all miss him," said his sister, placing a tray of food beside him.

"I thought you didn't like him very much, Jocelyn," said Arnaud. "You used to call him an under-stuffed scarecrow."

"That was then, but things have changed..." she trailed off.

"So are the rumours true?" said Arnaud abruptly.

"What rumours Arnaud?" said Jocelyn. Her heart started to beat very quickly and she could hear the blood roaring in her ears.

"You know what I mean, Jocelyn," said Arnaud. He took her hand in his own. "I just want to know the truth."

The young woman snatched her hand from him. Before he could say anything else to her to alleviate her agitated state, she fled from his workshop. Arnaud made no move to follow her. In his heart, he already knew.

Jocelyn slowed to a walk outside the workshop. Why? Why? Why did God let such a terrible thing happen to her? Didn't he care? None of the men even looked at her anymore. She was glad, for most part. She couldn't bear the accusations. Her father did not speak to her anymore, and her mother looked at her with such loathing that sometimes she wished she was dead.

The sound of hooves reached her ears. Two men on the same horse had ridden into the village. The one in the front was the most handsome man she had ever seen. His face was covered in a light growth of beard and his hair reached the base of his jaw in wild curls. His eyes were a warm brown. He looked down at her and smiled a little, and then he dismounted and seemed as if he wanted to approach her. All the other village girls were giggling and pointing at the handsome stranger. She looked away and continued walking. "Jocelyn," he called. His voice was low and pleasant to the ear. She stopped.

"How do you know me?" she demanded.

"Don't you remember?" he asked, stepping towards her and stopping at a proper distance. "Your father and my father are friends. I've known you since I was a boy."

Jocelyn gave a start, and then she peered closely up at his face. "Balian?" she said, unable to believe what she saw. The cygnet had turned into a swan.

"Yes," he said, grinning.

Jocelyn then remembered. "Come Balian, quickly!" Without thinking about propriety, she grabbed his hand and dragged him in the direction of the forge.

"Jocelyn, wait, wait," said Balian. "What's wrong?" He could feel Jean-Pierre staring at them with eyes so large and round, they could almost mirror the moon. The boy had hardly had any female contact at all, and even Balian felt intimidated by Jocelyn's boldness in taking his hand.

"You have to see your mother," she said. "She is very ill..." Balian left her behind as he raced to the forge, his desperation lending him speed. He threw open the door to the cottage.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"What are you doing?" said the old smith, getting up from his chair by the fire. He couldn't recognize the man whom his awkward apprentice had become. "Who are you...Balian? Christ, boy, we thought you were dead..."

"I need to see her..." said Balian.

"She's in the back," said his father. Balian did not wait any longer. He rushed to his mother's side and fell onto his knees beside her. She looked so frail and weak, as if her whole life had been drained from her. Her breathing was difficult and shallow. He took hold of her hand, the hand which had comforted him after nightmares, the hand which had soothed his hurts. He kissed his mother's hand, feeling the bones beneath the dry thin skin.

Solange stirred and her eyes slowly opened. "Mother," said Balian. "I'm back."

"Balian?" she whispered. "Have you come to take me back home to my Heavenly Father?"

"No, _Maman_," he said, his voice cracking. "It's not your time yet. I'm back to stay. I won't leave you again."

"They told me you fell..."

"I didn't fall, _Maman_. They were wrong."

Solange reached up with a shaking hand to touch his face. "My little Balian, all grown," she said. "Oh look at you...so handsome."

"I'll always be your little Balian," said Balian, with tears sliding down his face. "Always."

"Don't be silly..." said Solange. Her voice was cut off as she started to cough. Her chest heaved as she tried to breathe. Flecks of blood stained her lips. Balian took out his handkerchief to wipe her mouth clean. "You have to grow up...have sons and daughters of your own..." She took a few deep breaths. "I've always wanted a daughter," she told him. "God gave me two beautiful boys, but I've always wanted a daughter..." She smiled weakly at him. "Jocelyn's a good girl..."

"She has been looking after your mother," said the old smith, who knew what his wife wanted.

"I'll make you better," said Balian. "I promise you'll get better."

"I'm proud of you..." said Solange. Her eyes closed. She gave a small sigh, and then she was still. Her hand went limp in Balian's own.

"_Maman_?" said Balian. "No, don't go! It's not your time yet! _Maman_!" He tried to take his mother's frail and wasted body in his arms, but the old smith dragged him away.

"No, boy," he said, holding the young man tightly. "She's gone. That's just an empty shell. The bad humours might get to you."

"She's my mother, damn it!" cried Balian, struggling against the old smith's hold. "Let me go!"

"It's alright," said the old smith, trying to calm him down. "She died happy. She's proud of you, son. She was happy to have been able to see you again."

Balian's emotions flooded out. He wept as he had never done before. The old smith held him and rocked him as if he was a small child. When at last, Balian managed to get himself under control, Jocelyn and Jean-Pierre had been standing outside for a while.

The young man wiped his face dry with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry," he said. "I almost lost my mind..."

"I understand, son," said the old smith. "But remember, she's proud of you and if you remember her, she'll always be alive," he pointed to Balian's heart "in there."

Balian nodded, feeling embarrassed about showing his emotions so blatantly. And Jocelyn and Jean-Pierre had heard him. They knew how weak he was.

"Now, you stay here and rest," said the old smith. "I will go and fetch Guillaume and Bishop Gavin. They will tend to her."

* * *

They laid Solange to rest in the old cemetery, with a simple wooden cross to mark her grave. The day was sombre and the leaves were beginning to fall. Balian felt numb. He did not make a sound as Bishop Gavin said the prayers. His mother was gone, and he had not been able to stop the illness from ravaging her body. He felt as if he had failed her. 

Jocelyn was there, saying her own private farewell to the woman who had treated her as if she was her own daughter. The young woman glanced at Balian who looked as if they were putting a part of him in that black pit in the earth. He would need some care and comfort. 'I'll look after him,' she promised the dead woman. 'He won't be alone.'

Balian went directly back to the forge after the funeral. He had no stomach for the condolences which the congregation would be expressing to him and his family. He started up the fire and started pumping the bellows. There was work which needed to be done. The repetitive movements took his mind away from his grief. He heated up the metal and then put it on the anvil. He pounded on the metal as if it was the cause of all his grievances. It made him feel a little better. Why did he have to leave for war? If he had been here back at home, his mother might not have gotten ill. He would have fought the Grim Reaper himself if he'd had the chance.

The old smith knew better than to speak to the young man when he was in such a state. He did not know what to say anyway. He'd heard it all before. The old man understood now why Solange was so proud of the boy. He wished that Guillaume had half his courage and honour.

* * *

_Four months later_... 

The wind was bitterly cold as it swept through the villages, bringing with it ice and snow which covered every surface. The forge was the warmest place. Jean-Pierre worked the bellows while his master pounded on brackets for the new church. The old one had collapsed during a storm. It was lucky that no one had been inside.

"_Monsieur le Forgeron?_" came a woman's voice. Balian looked up. Jocelyn, wrapped up in layers of fabric, was here. He put down his hammer and wiped his hands on his apron. It felt awkward to be addressed as 'Master Blacksmith'.

"It's just 'Balian'," he said.

"It doesn't seem proper to be using your name, Monsieur," said Jocelyn. Her nose was red from the cold. Covered in snow, she looked like the queen of winter. "My brother wants me to ask if you can fix his vice. He's broken it again."

"That's no big shock," said Balian, getting his cloak from where it hung from a hook on one of the supports. "How has he been?"

"As well as he can be. He can't work very well yet, although the tools you made him have helped."

"And how are you?"

"I..." Jocelyn did not know what to say. Her mother's accusations had gotten worse and worse. "I'm fine. It just..."

"The rumours? I've heard them. Gossips are poisonous. I know that better than most." The blacksmith wrapped his cloak around himself and stepped out of the forge. The two young people walked down the path side by side, keeping a chaste distance apart. "Pay them no heed, Jocelyn."

"I wish I could," said Jocelyn. Balian smiled at her. Ever since his mother's death, Jocelyn had been the one comforting him. She had been the light in his life, showing him hope when he could see none. His feelings for her had not diminished. Maybe it was time to ask her brother for permission to court her...

"Ah, Balian," said Arnaud, with a smile. "I broke my vice again."

"Your sister told me," said Balian. He examined the broken tool and frowned. "I think you need a new one this time. What did you do to it?"

"Only dropped a hatchet on it," said Arnaud. All that remained of the wooden part were two splintered pieces.

"I think I'll make you one entirely of iron this time," said Balian. "That should last you a little longer."

"Thank you, old friend," said Arnaud. "How much will that cost me?"

Balian thought about it. "I need to speak with you in private," said the blacksmith. Arnaud led him to a back room in the workshop.

"Well?" said the young carpenter. "How much?"

"I won't charge you, because I want to ask a favour of you."

"Balian, I thought we were beyond that. Friends give each other favours. You don't have to pay me for it; you saved my life, remember? Now what is it?"

"I would like to ask for permission to court your sister," said Balian.

Arnaud started to laugh, and then realized that his friend meant every word. "You're not jesting?"

"Why would I be?"

"You've heard the rumours..."

"Gossips are poisonous and unfounded."

"Then gladly, I give you permission, but you might like to ask her first before you try anything."

"Of course I will ask for her permission. I only asked you because I don't want you killing me once you find out."

Unknown to both of them, Jocelyn had been eavesdropping. She almost giggled when she heard Balian's request. Didn't he know how many girls were wishing that he would ask that of their fathers? Maybe not. Balian was not aware of his charms. Underneath, he was still that same awkward blacksmith's apprentice who had dropped a hammer on his foot.

* * *

**A/N: **This is probably going to be the first and last fanfic romance that I write, maybe with the exception of some Willabeth stuff. Does anyone want more battles? I can easily work one in if there are requests. 


	12. Of Love and Shame

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Balian or anything from the film. They belong to geniuses Sir Ridley Scott and William Monahan. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them.

**Chapter 12: Of Love and Shame**

The news that Balian had asked for permission to court Jocelyn spread fast. Soon, it was all over the village. The rumours surrounding Jocelyn grew in earnest, fuelled by the jealousy of the women who fancied the young blacksmith. Thomas tried to pay the rumours no heed for friendship's sake, but he could not help wondering if the rumours were true.

* * *

It was dusk. Jean-Pierre was banking the fire in the forge and putting away his tools. Down in the cottage, Balian would be attempting to cook something that was remotely edible. The boy smiled and shook his head. His master might be brave and skilled in many aspects, but cooking was not one of t hem. Hopefully, the old smith would intervene and take over the preparation of the evening meal. He was not much better but anything was better than Balian's cooking. The young blacksmith did need a wife, and soon, before they were all poisoned by his attempts at making meals.

"Excuse me?"

Jean-Pierre looked up. "Mademoiselle Jocelyn," he said, hurriedly putting down his tools. "Master Balian is down in the cottage. Shall I go fetch him?"

"Please do, Jean-Pierre," she said. "Thank you."

Moments later, the blacksmith returned with his apprentice. Balian smiled shyly when he saw her. "How can I help you, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

"Monsieur, My brother and I were wondering if you would all like to join us for the evening meal," she said. Behind Balian, Jean-Pierre nodded desperately. He had no desire to taste Balian's latest culinary creation.

"We'd love to, thank you," said Balian. "Let me get my father. He has been complaining about my cooking skills."

"I don't blame him," muttered Jean-Pierre. "Army fare tasted better."

Jocelyn laughed as Balian glared at his apprentice with mock anger. They were more like siblings than master and apprentice. The blacksmith tried to think of a clever retort, but he couldn't. Not willing to admit that he had lost this particular argument, he turned around to head back to the cottage to fetch the old smith. "You should not aggravate him," Jocelyn told Jean-Pierre once Balian was out of earshot. "He is a good man."

The apprentice shrugged. "Then where's the fun?" he asked. "I love him dearly. He's like a father and a brother to me, but I also love annoying him. Don't worry, he doesn't mind. I wouldn't be doing it if he does."

Balian returned moments later, supporting his old father. "The dratted leg won't listen to me," complained the old man. He held out his hand to Jean-Pierre. "Give me a hand, boy. The sooner we get to that warm workshop, the better. My bones are freezing out here." He gave Balian and conspiratorial wink and then hobbled off with Jean-Pierre, leaving Balian and Jocelyn with some precious time to themselves.

"He's changed," observed Jocelyn.

"Growing soft in his old age," said Balian.

"You look well, Balian."

"You too." The young blacksmith felt awkward. What was he supposed to say to the woman he loved? He looked down at his feet. It was his turn to comment on something. "The weather is awful."

"I find the snow lovely," said Jocelyn. Balian felt inclined to agree at the moment. Jocelyn looked beautiful covered in snowflakes.

"At the moment, maybe," he said "but in the army, it was goddamn..." he stopped. He'd cursed before a member of the more delicate sex. "Forgive me...I...I'm sorry if I've offended you..." His face grew hot, despite the cold.

"I don't mind," said Jocelyn. "You're a man. My brother says things like that all the time so I'm used to it. I think he learnt those words in the army."

"Me too...I mean, I don't curse all the time but I learnt the words when I was in the army..." Balian knew he was rambling on. He was more nervous than he had been before battles.

"So tell me about what it was like, being a soldier," said Jocelyn as they made their way slowly down the frozen path.

"It was...tough," said Balian. "Yes...very tough."

"Is that it? Tough?"

"Well, it wasn't easy..."

"What did you do?"

"We fought, and did what soldiers do..." The blacksmith knew he was making a fool of himself, but he couldn't help it. It was as if his mind had stopped working all of a sudden. Even the simplest thoughts had disappeared. All he knew was that he was alone, with the girl he adored. What could he say to an angel?

A pair of girls passed them on the road. Their heads were close together and they were whispering rather loudly. Balian heard Jocelyn's name and the words 'scandal' and 'shame'. Jocelyn stiffened beside him and suddenly stopped in mid-sentence. "Come on," he said rather loudly, trying to distract her from her uneasy thoughts "we should hurry. Knowing my apprentice, we'll have to go hungry if we're late."

Jocelyn nodded, grateful that he was trying to make her feel better. She hurried after him, beginning to wonder if he was indeed her knight in shining armour.

* * *

The sound of the hammer on the anvil resounded across the village. Balian's mind was elsewhere. The fire in the forge and the heat of his passion warmed him, although bitter winds leaked through the gaps and made the water trough freeze over. Thomas watched his friend from a distance. The young blacksmith was maddened by love. Cupid had caught him in his snare and now Balian could not get out. He was so blinded by love that he could not see the dangers which lay ahead of him.

The baker's son knew that his interference would do nothing for his friendships with both Balian and Arnaud, but he was genuinely worried for the former. With a sigh, he approached the forge, not noticing that Jocelyn had also come to seek out the blacksmith.

"Balian," called Thomas. "Can I speak with you for a moment?"

"Thomas," said Balian, putting down his hammer. He smiled. Thomas had not seen him so happy since his mother had died. "Come, warm yourself by the fire.,"

Jocelyn decided to wait outside. She leaned against one of the posts which held up the thatched roof and wrapped her cloak around her tightly to keep out the cold. Balian's voice floated to her ears, soothing her. How could she have ever scorned him?

The discussion between the two young men was getting heated. "...but I love her," Balian was saying.

"She is not a virgin, Balian," said Thomas. "Think of your reputation! It will go to the cesspits if you marry her!"

Jocelyn stiffened. They were talking about her...

"My reputation has been in the cesspits ever since I was born. I'm a bastard."

"It's not the same, Balian. You're the Peasant Knight now. Everyone looks up to you. Jocelyn isn't pure or chaste..."

The young woman ran. She had heard enough. In her mind, she relived that terrible day even as her feet pounded on the frozen dirt path back to the safety of her home. She could remember every scrape and bruise, every bestial grunt. Shame filled her, and her tears overflowed. She stuffed her fist into her mouth to stop herself from sobbing out loud.

Thomas was right, she was unchaste, impure. Sooner or later, they would turn even Balian, the man who loved her, against her. And they would be right to do so. She was not worthy of the Peasant Knight. Her future was ruined, but she couldn't spoil his. She burst into her own cottage and slammed the door shut. Soon, she would tell him the whole truth, and persuade him to pursue another woman; one who was virtuous enough to deserve happiness with him.

* * *

The first pale blossoms were beginning to open as the earth awoke from its long cold slumber. Jocelyn found Balian on a small hill which overlooked the village. His cloak blew around him and as the wind toyed with his clothes and hair. His eyes were distant as he gazed across the fields which he had known ever since he had been a small boy whom everyone in the village had loved to torment. So much had changed since then, but the fields were still the same.

She slowly approached him, stopping about three feet away. "Monsieur," she said. "I must speak with you." He turned around and regarded her with his intense liquid brown eyes which seemed to bore into her mind. They were filled with concern. She knew why he was worried. Recently, she had started to address him by his first name. Why was there suddenly a reverse?

Jocelyn took a deep breath and mustered all her courage. "I must call off this courtship," she said. "I'm sorry, Monsieur, but I can't marry you. The rumours are true. I have been defiled...and I can't...I can't ruin your future...Find someone more worthy of the Peasant Knight..." Emotion clogged up her throat, and she fled before he could say anything to her. She could not bear to hear the accusations and condemnation coming from his lips.

It took Balian some time to react. And then he ran after her. "Jocelyn!" he called. She didn't turn around but kept running. She was no match for his speed, however, and he overtook her at the bottom of the hill, quickly barring her way. He caught her arm in a tight grip. His breathing was rapid and harsh.

"You're angry," said Jocelyn.

"Yes."

"Then why did you stop me?"

"I don't blame you, Jocelyn. I blame myself. I'm ashamed."

"You? Why?"

"Because I should've been here to protect you, not gallivanting off to some distant land to play hero! What sort of man am I? I could protect others, but I couldn't protect the woman I love."

"Monsieur, I..."

The young blacksmith reached to his neck and took something from around it. It was a silver cross, dangling from a leather thong, glittering in the spring sunlight. "I have worn this over my heart," he said. "I've been wanting to give you this for some time now but so much has happened since my return, I'd forgotten."

He took her hand in his hard calloused one and placed the cross in her palm. "Take this, as a token of my love and devotion," he said. "I swear that I love you and I will love you, always. Nothing can change that." He closed her fingers over the little cross, and by this action, gave her his heart to do whatever she would with it.

Jocelyn started crying in earnest. As he released her, she caught his hand again, not ever wanting let him go. It was a small gesture, but it was enough to fill Balian with so many emotions that his throat moved up and down as he tried to contain them. She held his hand, glad for the contact. They didn't know how long they stayed like this for, but finally, Balian got himself under control. He broke the silence. "Jocelyn, I have to go," he said. "Jean-Pierre can't look after the forge for that long and it's not proper for us to be seen like this without chaperones."

The young woman nodded, and slowly let him go. He gave her a small smile. "A good day to you, Jocelyn," he said.

"And to you...Balian," said Jocelyn. She watched him go back to the village and disappear into his forge. The young woman held the cross close and then she put the leather thong around her neck. Now she wore Balian's gift proudly over her heart.

* * *

Everyone could see the change in Jocelyn when she went back to the village. Her step was lighter, and she held her head high. "Is that _real_ silver?" whispered one of the girls jealously, looking at Jocelyn's cross.

"How did she get it?"

"Did someone give it to her?"

"She wasn't wearing it this morning when I saw her."

Jocelyn ignored them. What they thought didn't matter anymore. Balian loved her, despite everything. That was enough.

"Jocelyn?" said Arnaud as she walked through the workshop on her way back to the cottage. "Where have you been all morning. Mother has been looking for you...are you wearing silver?" He went over to her.

"Balian gave it to me," said Jocelyn, showing him the little cross.

"He must be very serious," whispered Arnaud, more to himself than to Jocelyn.

"He is," said Jocelyn.

"All the village girls will be green with jealousy," said Arnaud. "Well, they already are, since you've managed to snag the heart of the most sought after man in the village despite everything, but they'll be even more jealous now. Has he asked you to marry him yet?"

"Arnaud! Stop being such a tease! I shall ignore you until you gain some sense!" Jocelyn skipped away back to the cottage. She could hardly feel the ground beneath her feet.

* * *

Jean-Pierre felt that his master was paying less attention than usual to the work. Maybe it was the time of the year, but he doubted it. "Sir, are you alright?" he asked.

"What?" said Balian.

"I asked you if you were feeling alright. You look a bit...dazed."

"It's nothing."

"When you say that, I know it's something."

"As I've said, it's nothing."

The blacksmith's apprentice was not about to give up so easily. He knew that enough nagging would force Balian to spill his secret. And he was right.

"I was wondering..." began Balian.

"Yes?" said Jean-Pierre encouragingly.

"Should I ask Jocelyn to marry me?"

"Why shouldn't you? You and Mademoiselle Jocelyn suit each other."

"It's just...I'm nervous. What if she doesn't love me?"

"You are so blind, sir. She is in love with you, as much as you are in love with her."

Balian put down his tools and sighed. "I don't know...if I can make a good enough husband..." he said.

"Oh stop your fretting," said Jean-Pierre. "I think you'll make the best husband in the world. She'd be a very happy wife if she married you."

"Would she?"

"Why don't you go ask her now? She's coming to the forge." Balian could not react quickly enough to stop his apprentice. "Mademoiselle!" called the boy. "Master Balian has something that he wants to say to you!"

"Jean-Pierre!" hissed Balian, growing very red, and it was not because of the fire in the forge. "I'm not ready!"

"You're as ready as you'll ever be, sir," said the boy, trying not to laugh at his master's predicament.

'I am going to die of embarrassment,' thought Balian as Jocelyn came into the forge. Jean-Pierre gave him a rather forceful nudge, sending him stumbling forward so he was less than a foot away from Jocelyn.

"Jocelyn...I..." he stammered. He took a few deep breaths, trying to regain his composure. His blood roared in his ears. "I...I love you. You know that...don't you?"

Jocelyn nodded. Her heart pounded in her breast. What did he want to say to her?

Balian remembered the stories that his mother used to tell him. He got down on one knee in front of the young woman and took her soft hand in his. Her bones were so fine and delicate. "Jocelyn, will you...will you..." The word stuck in his throat. He was so nervous. 'Just say it, idiot!' he thought to himself. "Will you marry me?" It came out in a barely understood jumble of syllables, but Jocelyn knew him well enough by now to understand him.

"Yes," she said, nodding. She started to laugh. "By the Holy virgin...yes!"

"You will?" said Balian, not quite believing what he was hearing.

"Yes, Balian, yes!"

"That's great!" said Balian. His grin threatened to split his face. That was when he heard the cheering and wolf-whistles. A crowd had gathered outside the forge. He scrambled to his feet in total shock.

"Kiss her! Kiss her!" some of the boys and younger men began to chant. "You've got enough witnesses to make it a proper wedding, monsieur!"

"Where's the priest? Isn't his brother the priest? Someone go get the priest!"

"My sister will have a proper wedding in a church, not some impromptu affair!" That was unmistakably Arnaud.

"In case you didn't notice, the old church got blown down by that devil of a storm. We don't have a church no more, only a holy woodpile!"

"What's going on?" The crowd parted to let Gavin through. It was the first time Balian had seen the new bishop since his return. The churchman had aged although his eyes still contained that youthful twinkle. "Balian! I'm so glad to see you alive, son. What is going on?"

"Marry them, Excellency!" shouted someone from the back of the crowd.

"Yes, marry them! Now!"

"Where are the parents of the bride and bridegroom?"

Balian just stood there, still wearing his leather apron over his stained undershirt. This was not how he had envisioned his wedding. Beside him, Jocelyn blushed furiously, but even so, she could not contain her grin.

"What do the bride and groom say about this?" asked Gavin, sensing the young couple's discomfort.

"I'd like some time to get ready for a proper wedding," said Balian, blushing furiously "and I need to ask Jocelyn's mother for permission."

"I think she'll know something is going on by now," muttered Arnaud. "Well, go on, back to your own business and let them get ready. When they've chosen a day, you'll know about it."

* * *

**A/N: **Finally! The big day looms! Balian has taken forever but he's finally done it!

7


	13. Facing the Demon

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Balian or any of the characters from the film. They belong to geniuses Sir Ridley Scott and William Monahan. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them.

**Chapter 13: Facing the Demon**

Jocelyn went home in a daze. Balian had asked her to marry him. "Where have you been?" demanded her mother. "It's hard enough that you're going to be a spinster and now you've grown lazy too! You're a burden to your family! Your father will never rest easy in his grave if he knows what you've become."

"Mother, I will not be a spinster," said Jocelyn. Nothing could ruin her mood.

"Well, you haven't got any offers have you?" said the old woman.

"She has got an offer," said Arnaud, coming to his sister's defence.

"Hmmph, from some old toothless serf no doubt," said their mother.

"No, from Balian," said Jocelyn.

"Balian? The blacksmith?" said her mother, her tone suddenly changing.

"What other Balian is there?" said Arnaud, taking some cheese from a plate. "We've got two in the village and both are blacksmiths."

"It is the younger one you're talking about, isn't it?" said the old woman. "The Peasant Knight?"

"Yes, Mother," said Arnaud. "The old smith is hardly going to marry."

"Oh, dear lord," said Jocelyn's mother. She sat down abruptly and began to fan herself with her hands. "We are saved! You did agree, didn't you?"

"Of course," said Jocelyn. "Everyone wanted us to marry right there and then, but I wanted to know what you think about it."

"Well, he'll have to ask me for permission first," said the old woman, regaining her calm. "Then we'll know if he means it or not."

* * *

"Your mother would be so happy for you," said the old smith to Balian as he sat by the fire. The young blacksmith dried the last of the plates while humming tunelessly to himself. "She'd always loved that girl as her own daughter. Have you decided on a date yet?"

"I haven't even asked her mother for permission," said Balian.

"She'll grant it, knowing that old hag," said the old smith. "You're the most sought after young man in the village. You've got the wealth, the prospects, the reputation. Who would've guessed? It doesn't seem very long since you've dropped a hammer on your foot when you saw the girl."

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone so nervous," said Jean-Pierre. "You were calmer that time when we were ambushed in the valley and the enemy surrounded us with fire."

"It wasn't you doing the proposing," said Balian. "Of course you wouldn't understand how intimidating it was."

"You still have to ask her mother," said his apprentice. "Now _that_ might be scary."

* * *

When Balian woke up, he felt that something was different. He was getting married today. The idea filled him with anticipation, but also a little dread. What if Jocelyn decided that she didn't love him _after_ they were wed? What would he do then? And how exactly was a married man different from an unmarried man? He dared not voice these questions, at least, not to his father. The old smith frowned upon indecisiveness and uncertainty.

His best clothes had been laid out for him. A plain white linen shirt, with a brown sleeveless tunic to go over it, and the one pair of trousers that he owned which had no patches or holes. He washed his face with cold water and pulled his clothes on. The birds were singing and the day promised to be hot, with very little wind. His apprentice was nowhere to be seen. The boy was probably busy preparing for the wedding.

The old smith hobbled in. "You're up, I see," he said. "Well, boy, these are your last hours of freedom. How do you feel?"

"A bit strange, I suppose," said Balian.

"Well, your wedding will be bigger than mine," said the old man. "The whole village has been invited."

"The whole village?"

"Originally, it was only a few families but then the rest of them decided to invite themselves anyway. No one wants to miss the wedding of the Peasant Knight."

"I am beginning to hate my reputation," said the young blacksmith, straightening his tunic. "Everyone seems to want to know what is going on in my life."

"Well, shall we go and fetch your bride?" said the old smith. For this occasion, Balian had decided to do something out of the ordinary. He still had the horse which he had been allotted while he had been in the army. His bride would ride to her wedding.

* * *

Jocelyn was nervous. Her hands shook so much that she could hardly braid her own hair. Today, she would give herself to the man who had professed his love for her. "Do I look alright?" she asked her younger sister Marie anxiously. Not being able to afford a mirror meant that she could not see what she looked like.

"You look like a princess," said Marie. "He will be so smitten!"

"He already is smitten," said Arnaud, coming in. "And he probably wouldn't care if we shaved her head and then put her in sack cloth. He'd still think her lovely."

"Arnaud!" cried Jocelyn. "I'm nervous enough as it is!"

The sound of a horse's hooves drew near. Arnaud peered out the window. "Err...Jocelyn," he said. "You'd better hurry. Your knight is here, complete with the white horse, although it is more of a grey."

Jocelyn's mother rushed into her daughter's room. She was even more excited than the bride. "Quickly, girl, quickly!" she cried. "The bridegroom is here! You can't keep him waiting!" She hauled Jocelyn to her feet.

"Mother, I am not ready yet!" protested the young woman.

"Calm down, sister, you look beautiful," said Arnaud.

"A Peasant Lady for the Peasant Knight," said Marie dreamily. "This is so romantic."

Arnaud rolled his eyes. "Girls," he muttered fondly as he followed his mother and sisters outside. The bridegroom was waiting. The blacksmith met his gaze and grinned. Balian stood beside his horse and cupped his hands so that Jocelyn could step on them and lever herself up onto the animal's back. Her mother was delighted.

"He is such a gentleman," she cooed as Balian led the horse away with Jocelyn seated on it like a queen.

Since the village had no church, an altar had been set up in front of the forge so that the ceremony could be performed there. The wedding was to be celebrated by Bishop Gavin with Balian's brother Guillaume acting as the assistant. The crowd parted to let the young blacksmith and his bride through, cheering as they passed.

Balian helped Jocelyn off the horse and the couple walked up to the altar. The blacksmith didn't pay much attention to the prayers, which were all in Latin so he hardly understood them anyway. His focus was on his bride. She looked like an apparition from Heaven, even though her dress was plain. She glanced at him and smiled shyly.

Guillaume watched on with jealousy. By rights, his bastard brother wasn't even supposed to be allowed to marry or fall in love. He had been cursed since his birth, marked by his parents' adultery.

"Do you, Balian, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?" asked Bishop Gavin.

"I do," said Balian, grinning like a simpleton.

"Do you, Jocelyn, accept this man as your husband?"

"I do," said Jocelyn.

"With Christ, and the entire congregation as witnesses to your vows, I pronounce you man and wife," said the bishop. "Balian, you may kiss your bride."

Tentatively, Balian leaned forwards towards Jocelyn. Before their lips met, a horse thundered down the path with a wounded soldier on its back, scattering the congregation.

"We're under attack!" shouted the soldier. The villagers started panicking. All of them ran back to their homes to gather what they could and then fled to the safety of the fortress. Jocelyn looked at Balian desperately.

"Balian, I don't want to go to the fortress," she said.

"You don't have a choice," said her husband, fetching his sword from where it hung in the forge and gathering what possessions he could. "You'll be killed if you stay here!"

"I can't! _He _lives in the castle!"

Balian stopped loading things onto his horse. "Who?" he asked.

"Lord Luc," said Jocelyn in a small strangled voice. Her eyes held the same wild fear as that of a hunted doe. The blacksmith now understood everything.

"Jocelyn, trust me," he said, taking hold of her hand. "I promise I'll protect you with my life."

"Will you really?" said Jocelyn.

"I'll die before I let anything hurt you." His intense brown eyes bored into her, willing her to understand the extent of his devotion.

"No, I don't want you to die!"

"I don't plan to."

They joined the mass of villagers, all running up the hill to the fortress. Jean-Pierre and the old smith were in front of them. The boy acted as the old man's support. Guillaume was, presumably, already inside the walls.

Men, women, children and livestock flooded through the fortress' wooden gates, hoping that the high stone walls would protect them against the invading army.

"Lieutenant!" someone shouted. Balian looked up to see a man who had served with him. He couldn't remember the man's name. The man waved and then called out to someone else. "Master Jacques! I've found him, the Peasant Knight!" Moments later, the young blacksmith saw Jacques the engineer pushing his way through the crowd to him.

"The Lord must have some special purpose for you," said the engineer above the din. "We all thought you were dead and here you are, as strong as an ox!" Jacques took in the rest of Balian's company. He took the young man by the arm. "Come, we'll get you a place inside the keep. It's safer there and better suited to your old parents and your pretty sister."

"Jacques," said Balian. "Jocelyn is my wife." It felt strange and thrilling to be saying that.

"Is she now? You're a lucky bastard, Balian. How long have you been married?"

"Less than an hour."

"You always did know how to pick your moments, you buffoon," laughed Jacques. He led them up to the keep. It seemed no less crowded there to Balian but they managed to find an unoccupied corner. Guillaume joined them and so did the rest of Jocelyn's family.

"Poor you," said Marie to her older sister as Jacques dragged Balian away to discuss the defences. "Fancy getting attacked on your wedding day. He didn't even get a chance to kiss you."

"We'll have plenty of opportunities after this," said Jocelyn. "For the moment, I'm proud of what he's doing."

Balian returned a while later, bringing food with him. "I'm afraid it doesn't taste great," he said "but at least we won't starve."

"It tastes better than our usual fare, sir," said Jean-Pierre, ripping off a hunk of bread with his teeth.

"Well, I won't have to worry about my darling sister going hungry," said Arnaud. "Her husband has proven that he is capable of providing for her and their children."

"Except they don't have any children yet," said the old smith. "Let's hope that changes soon."

"Amen to that," said Jean-Pierre. "They'll need a private room first though, or perhaps a nice empty field with some shady trees."

"Jean-Pierre!" said Balian, who had turned scarlet at the thought. Jocelyn looked down at the floor. After what had happened to her, she didn't really want to think about the wedding night. She was afraid, even though she knew that Balian loved her and would never do anything to harm her.

* * *

Luc abhorred the noise and the stench of the vulgar people, although he saw many wenches who were pleasing to the eye. The thought of taking them to his bed excited him. He caught sight of the handsomest creature of the lot and he could not help but lick his lips at the memory of her hot soft body underneath his.

Jocelyn was laying out the bedding when she heard a much hated voice behind her. She straightened herself and whipped around. Luc smiled, although it was more of a sneer. "Mademoiselle," he said, bowing. She dipped a stiff curtsy. Her heart was racing and she longed to flee from him.

"It's Madame now, my lord," she said curtly, trying to stop her voice from shaking.

"Sir," said another man's voice, one which she had come to love. She felt Balian's firm hand settle protectively on her shoulder as her husband stepped between her and the baron's son. She looked at him gratefully and was startled by the resemblance between the two men. They both had the same nose and chin. The shapes of their faces were so similar that they could've been brothers. Only their colourings and their manners differed. One was a rogue and the other, a knight.

Balian stared challengingly at the man who had tormented the woman he loved, daring him to make a move. He and Luc were of the same height, although The baron's son was of a heavier build, due to a more privileged life. Luc's lip curled slightly in disdain. "So you're the lucky man," he said. He leaned in closer, as if to share a secret. "She's an amazing woman, although you wouldn't know it from the way she looks, all cold and demure and proper at the moment," he whispered loudly in a cruel and meaningful tone. As he said it, his eyes flickered to Jocelyn, who took an involuntary step backwards. She could see Balian clenching his fists, as if getting ready to strike out at Luc. He was as stiff as the shaft of a spear.

'Don't,' she thought desperately. If her husband fought the baron's son, he would surely be killed, or at least gravely injured. She didn't want anything happening to him.

Luc smirked in satisfaction, and the seething rage built up inside Balian. Nobleman or not, how dare he insult his wife? He watched the man walk away, and he cursed himself for not defending his wife's honour.

"Balian?" said Jocelyn, touching him lightly on the arm. He turned around to look at her.

"I'm useless, Jocelyn," he said. "He was right there, and I couldn't even make him pay for everything that he's done to you."

"I'm glad you didn't hit him," she said. "I don't want you to get hurt." Hesitantly at first, she leaned against him and rested her head on his chest, letting his strong loving heartbeat soothe her. His arms slowly enveloped her in a warm embrace. She felt safe in his arms. "You'll always be my knight, Balian."

"A storm's brewing," said the old smith quietly to Jean-Pierre. "The later it strikes, the harder it will strike." He jerked his head in the couple's direction. "I worry for that boy of mine."

* * *

**A/N: **Showdown or no showdown? Wait and see. Please review! I don't mind if you write to say that I am a horrid writer as long as you point out what exactly it is that you don't like and why.

5


	14. In Sickness and in Health

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything/one from the film. I wish I did.

**Chapter 14: In Sickness and in Health**

Jocelyn hardly saw Balian over the next few days. He was always with the engineers and the craftsmen, building catapults and ballistae. To occupy her time, she volunteered to help in the infirmary. Arnaud introduced her to Mathieu, the physician who had treated both him and Balian. Jocelyn liked him at once. He was a kind and optimistic man who was wise and yet easy to approach.

Balian was very pleased about it. "Who knows?" he said. "Maybe I might be at your mercy if I take a wound and you have to nurse me back to health."

"Don't jest about such things, Balian," scolded Jocelyn. She feared that it might actually become the truth. "I don't want to have to nurse you back to health. I don't want you to get hurt." She looked down at her feet, fighting the lump in her throat. Whenever Balian was on the battlements, she was afraid that a stray enemy projectile might hit him.

"I'm sorry, Jocelyn," said Balian, sliding his fingers beneath her chin and tilting her face back so that he could look her in the eye. "Please don't be angry at me. I hate it when you're upset."

"Promise me you won't get hurt," said Jocelyn, knowing that she was being childish.

"That's one promise I can't make," said Balian.

* * *

Reginald de Nièvre drained his cup and flung it at the floor in frustration. It was bad enough that he'd had to retreat after his unsuccessful campaign against Gregoire de Bourges. Now the other nobleman had come here seeking retribution. He wasn't prepared for a long siege. While the villagers cowered in the fortress, the crops were left unattended in the fields. The enemy could easily take the harvest for their own, and the people of Nièvre would starve. 

"My lord!" cried a servant, rushing in. "They're trying to breach the walls!" Couldn't Gregoire have waited even a day or two? At the moment, Reginald had no doubt that the enemy soldiers could easily breach the walls.

"What are you doing, just standing there, you cretin?" he demanded. "Help me with my armour! I need to go out onto the wall!"

* * *

Balian ducked as the enemy sent up a volley of arrows. "Fire!" he shouted at the men who manned the catapults. 

"Sir!" cried Jean-Pierre. "We're running out of ammunition!"

"How many more rounds have we got left?"

"Only about six!"

"Well, send for more!"

"There is no more! The attack was too sudden. Lord Reginald was not prepared for a siege!"

Balian cursed loudly, but the din of battle drowned out his words. "Load anything we have into those catapults and blast those bastards till Kingdom come!" he roared, trying to make himself heard. "Jars, rocks, firewood, anything!"

"We can't hold them for much longer!" shouted Jacques as the first enemy soldiers clambered up their siege ladders and onto the wall. Balian pulled out his sword and with swift strokes, cut down any enemy troops who dared to engage him in combat. As he fought, he forced his compassion and humanity to the back of his mind, letting his animal instincts and the will to survive take over. It was the only way to live through a battle, he had learnt. Fear and pity were obstacles which a soldier could not afford to have.

Jean-Pierre was struggling to hold his own nearby. The boy was an untrained swordsman at the very best and he did not have the adequate strength to fight men. An arrow flew straight at him and he was not quick enough to avoid it. He thought he was about to meet his Maker, but something large knocked him out of the way The boy fell to the flagstones, stunned. He heard a cry of pain. The voice sounded familiar. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and then looked up to see the blacksmith on his knees, one had clutching his shoulder. An arrow protruded from his flesh and blood seeped out from between his fingers. "Sir!" cried Jean-Pierre. Balian climbed to his feet shakily. "I'm alright, Jean-Pierre," he said. His voice was thick with pain. "Don't worry about me." He would have said more to comfort his apprentice but he became too preoccupied with defending himself. He almost passed out when the arrow snapped, sending waves of pain shooting down his left arm. The blacksmith ignored the wound the best he could. His hilt was slick with blood; both his own and that of his enemies. It was becoming difficult to get a good grip. Every stroke of the sword aggravated his wound and he could not move as swiftly or cut down as strongly as he would've liked to.

It was well after dark before Gregoire de Bourges decided to call off the attack. The defenders were exhausted. Balian was feeling so faint that he could hardly stand. He had lost too much blood during the fight. With Jean-Pierre supporting him on one side and Jacques on the other, he staggered to the infirmary. His wife would not be pleased.

* * *

The wounded kept pouring in, filling every possible space. It made Jocelyn sick to see how badly hurt some of the men were. Many of them were just boys, barely out of childhood. They sobbed and cried out for their mothers. She comforted them the best she could, whispering soothing nonsense into their ears. 

"Jocelyn!" she heard Arnaud call. "Over here, quickly!" She looked up, and her heart almost stopped. Jean-Pierre and the engineer Jacques carried a pale-faced Balian between them. Red soaked his tunic and shirt. His dark locks were drenched with sweat. Her hand flew to her mouth. Fear filled her. She ran over to her husband's side as they lowered him onto an empty mattress.

He slowly turned to face her and he lifted a hand to touch her face. "Jocelyn," he said weakly. "My dear wife. I told you I couldn't promise."

"What happened?" she whispered, trying to keep her tears at bay.

"He was shot," said Jacques. We need a physician over here." He left to fetch one.

"He saved me, Mademoiselle," said Jean-Pierre, forgetting that Jocelyn was now married to his master. "He pushed me out of the way and took the arrow for me."

"There's no need to talk as if I'm not here," chided Balian softly. "I won't die from a scratch like this, you know."

Jacques returned with Mathieu in tow. The physician cut away Balian's clothes to expose the wound. An inch of the arrow protruded from his shoulder. He winced as Mathieu prodded the edges of the injury to assess its seriousness. The physician frowned. The flesh around the arrow was hot to the touch, meaning that the arrowhead had probably been stuck into the ground prior to being shot. The bad humours had already entered into the blood and if swift action was not taken, the wound might become gangrenous and the young blacksmith might actually die from his 'scratch'.

There was not enough of the arrow left to pull it out. He nodded at Jacques, Jean-Pierre and Arnaud, motioning for them to come away, out of Jocelyn's hearing range. "The arrow will have to be cut out," he told them. "There is no other way. I need you to hold him down while I do it. I will go and fetch what I need, while you go and tell him now, and try to get his wife away before I return." They nodded their agreement and returned to where Balian lay.

"Jocelyn?" said Arnaud. "I think you should leave. It's not going to be pretty and you should not see this. It's not a sight for women." The young woman shook her head stubbornly and clutched Balian's right hand.

"He is my husband," she said. "What sort of wife would I be if I did not stay with him in both sickness and in health?" She gave Balian a watery smile. He squeezed her hand in response. Mathieu returned with the equipment that he needed, helped by Jean-Pierre. Jocelyn paled a little when she saw the brazier with the hot iron which would be used to cauterize the wound, but she stoically stayed with her husband. Mathieu gave Balian a piece of leather to bite on. Jean-Pierre held down his left arm. Arnaud and Jacques held down the rest of him.

With a sterilized knife, Mathieu cut into the wound. Balian clamped down on the piece of leather and squeezed his eyes shut. Whimpers of agony escaped through his clenched teeth. Jocelyn felt her fingers being crushed in his powerful grip. She brushed his hair away from his sweaty face and tried to calm him with her voice. Tears of pain leaked from his closed eyes as Mathieu dug the arrow out of his flesh. It was slippery with blood and hard to grip, but the physician finally managed to extract it.

Balian's ordeal was not over. After the wound had been washed, Mathieu lifted the iron out of the brazier. It was glowing red and even white in some places. "Hold still, Balian," he said. "You have done very well. It'll be over soon." The young man screamed in pure agony as the searing metal touched his raw flesh. The scent of burnt meat filled the air. He kicked and bucked and it took all of his friends' strength to hold him down so that Mathieu could complete the procedure. "There we go," said Mathieu, taking away the now dull iron. Exhausted, Balian fell back limply, sobbing from the pain. Jean-Pierre was green. As soon as he was certain that he wasn't needed, he ran off to regurgitate the contents of his stomach. Mathieu dressed Balian's wound and then left him to rest.

The others left also. Only Jocelyn remained behind. "You must think me very weak," croaked Balian as his wife brushed the tears of agony away from his face.

"You're the bravest man I know," said Jocelyn, bending down to press her lips to his damp forehead. "It's not bad to show your weakness sometimes. It means that you're a man, and not something else. I'm very proud of you, my brave, brave knight."

"I love you, Jocelyn," Balian mumbled as he drifted off into an exhausted slumber.

"I love you too, Balian," whispered Jocelyn, meaning every word. It was the first time she had said it out loud, and Balian was not awake to hear it.

* * *

Jocelyn spent all night sitting beside her husband. Whenever he woke, he saw her there and was comforted. Sometime close to dawn, the old smith joined her in her vigil. "I'm glad his mother didn't see him like this," he said. "She would've been hysterical if she'd heard him scream like that. You're stronger than you let on, lass. Many a woman would have fainted." 

"If he can bear it, the least I can do is bear it with him," said Jocelyn. There were shadows under her eyes from not having gotten any sleep.

"Go and rest, my girl," said the old smith.

"I don't want Balian to be all alone," she protested as she stifled a yawn.

"I'll watch him," said the old smith.

* * *

When Balian woke up in the morning, the pain in his shoulder had faded to a bearable ache. It had gone stiff and when he tried to move it, he winced. "You scared her, boy," said a low gruff voice. 

"Father?" he said. His voice had become hoarse from the screaming. "Where's Jocelyn?"

"I sent her off to rest. The poor girl was exhausted."

"Is she alright?"

"She's as well as she can be, after going through all of that." The old smith patted Balian's hand. "You've quite some strength in you too, boy. Jean-Pierre told me everything. He was quite upset, especially when the physician said how easily the arrow could have hit you in the chest instead."

"Father, can you send him to me? I need to talk to him. It's not his fault." At that moment, the young man's stomach complained loudly about its emptiness. The old smith stood up stiffly. There was a twinkle in his eye.

"I'll send your apprentice with some food, shall I?" he said. Balian grinned.

"Thank you," he said.

"And Balian, no father could have had a better son. I am proud that you bear my name."

The young blacksmith was speechless.

Jean-Pierre sat in silence as the blacksmith filled his stomach. Balian swallowed the last of the bread and washed it down with water. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You are not to blame, Jean-Pierre," he said. "I made my choice back there. You couldn't have changed it."

"It's my fault, sir," said Jean-Pierre. "If I'd been quicker, you wouldn't have had to save me."

Balian reached out with his good arm to grip the boy's shoulder. "You had no control over it. You didn't ask for this war. None of us were prepared for it. I'm glad that it was my shoulder and not your head that got shot."

"Oh, sir, you didn't have to..."

"I promised you that I'd look after you, and I keep my promises, so don't be upset, alright?"

The boy nodded, and then looked back to where the rest of the family were. "Madame Jocelyn is up," he said. "She'll want to know that you're fine now."

"I was never not fine," said Balian. "I told you that I wouldn't die from a scratch like that. I don't know why you never listen to me." His ranting was futile. Jean-Pierre had already gone to Jocelyn to deliver the good news. His beautiful wife hurried to his side. Her hair was dishevelled and her clothes were dirtied and wrinkled, but he had never seen a lovelier sight. She knelt beside him. He picked up her hand and kissed the centre of her palm.

"The Good Lord has answered my prayers," she said. "How do you feel?"

"Just great," said Balian, grinning at her. He tucked a few stray strands of hair behind her ear. "I have the best wife in the world looking after me. What more can a man want?"

"I would make I whole list if I could write," said Arnaud, interrupting their intimate moment. "Children would be the first thing on it. Unfortunately, you might have to wait a while, Balian. Who knows how long _this_ bloody war is going to last?"

* * *

**A/N: **The evil plot bunny misbehaved again when I wrote this chapter. He is still too fast and cunning for me to catch. So here's some more Balian ouchies. The story is evolving into this huge romance. It's quite unbelievable. I didn't plan for it. Reviews? Pretty please? With a (virtual) cookie on top? 


	15. Confrontation

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Balian or any of the characters from the film. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them.

**Chapter 15: Confrontation**

Due to his injury, Balian was exempted from fighting. He soon grew bored of sleeping and as the pain faded, he constantly asked about the progress of the battle. "They haven't breached the walls yet," said Jean-Pierre "but they were pretty close to doing that yesterday. Lord Reginald has sent a messenger to Roger de Cormier, asking him to aid us. Do you think he will come?"

"You must remember one thing," said Balian. "These noblemen, they only care about themselves. The rest of the world can burn for all they care, as long as they retain their fine feasts, good garments and power."

"Hush," said the old smith sharply. "It won't do for someone to hear you say such things. Lord Reginald will have your head."

* * *

On the tenth day after he received his injury, the young blacksmith was allowed to go back out to the walls, although he was forbidden to fight. "Your arm needs rest," Mathieu told him. "You can still work as an engineer, but no more heroics. You might not be so lucky next time."

The old smith had come down with a cough and Jocelyn spent most of her time looking after him. Thus, she did not work in the infirmary. Unbeknownst to her, she was being watched.

Luc smiled and licked his lips as he took in the shape of the blacksmith's wife appreciatively. She really was an exquisite creature, and wasted on a commoner, even if the vulgar people did call him the Peasant Knight. She was bending over her father-in-law, feeding the old man some broth. He sidled over until he was directly behind her. He reached out and pulled away the kerchief which held back her hair. She whipped around. There was terror in those hazel eyes. Good; she remembered him.

"Don't you find this rather tedious?" he said, gesturing at the old man.

"It is my duty," said the woman stiffly. "I am glad to serve my family."

Luc laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "What a proper wife you are right now...oh, but that husband of yours doesn't know the truth behind that mask you wear does he? And now he's always away, serving the people, being a hero. You must be terribly lonely at nights." He reached out to stroke her cheek suggestively. She shied and backed up against the wall. The old man was trying to go to her aid, but he was so weak from his illness that he could not even get up.

And then, just as Luc was getting so close that she could smell his breath and hear his lustful breathing, someone shoved him away with so much force that the baron_'_s son almost fell onto the flagstones. Balian planted himself between his wife and the nobleman. "You keep your filthy whoreson's hands off my wife," growled the blacksmith.

"Is this how you treat your betters, _blacksmith_?" sneered Luc, although inside, his rage boiled and seethed like a cauldron of poison. How dare this commoner lay his hands on him? "I would think that you're the whoreson out of us two. Trust the son of a whore to marry a whore. Even up here, we have heard of your mother's debatable morality."

It was too much for Balian. He swung his fist at Luc. His knuckles connected with the nobleman's jaw and sent him reeling. The wild movement hurt his shoulder. He gasped and clutched it with his other hand. Luc saw it. No peasant was going to best him. He charged at Balian, aiming in particular for the blacksmith's wounded shoulder. He dug his fingers into the wound. Balian almost passed out from the pain but he managed to hold on to consciousness. He rammed his head into the bridge of Luc's nose, sending the nobleman stumbling backwards. A crowd had gathered, and they were cheering for their Peasant Knight.

Gavin pushed his way through the crowd. "What is going on?" he demanded. Luc was clutching his nose and blood seeped out from Balian's reopened wound.

"That serf hit me!" said Luc pathetically. His voice was muffled, probably from a broken nose.

"He was aggravating my wife," said Balian "and he insulted my mother." His voice was shaking with fury. He drew Jocelyn towards him protectively with his good arm. She clung to him. Her brave knight.

"This is not the time to be fighting amongst ourselves," said the bishop. He could not berate the baron's son, nor could he punish the blacksmith who had lashed out at the nobleman in order to protect his wife and the memory of his late mother. It would not be just. "The enemy is on our doorstep. Now is the time to put aside all differences and unite to protect all that we hold dear." He turned to Luc, who was still clutching his nose and moaning. "Let's get that nose of yours set," he said, leading him away. Luc cast a venomous glare back at Balian, who met it defiantly. He knew that he had lost. If he tried to harm the blacksmith now, the peasants would probably revolt and kill him.

Balian held Luc's gaze until the nobleman finally averted his eyes. The blacksmith's face was pale and his breaths were rapid and shallow. His shoulder throbbed. Jocelyn glanced up at him. "Here, Balian," she said. "Sit down." He did not protest and did as he was told. She unlaced his shirt and unwrapped the bandages around his shoulder. The tender flesh was bleeding again. "You shouldn't have hit him," said Jocelyn. "What will the baron do to you when he finds out? He'll have you beaten, or worse."

"I don't care," said Balian. "I wasn't going to let him hurt you while I stood around and did nothing like a coward."

"I won't be able to live with myself if I become the reason that the baron hurts you," said Jocelyn. "It wasn't worth it."

"You are worth it," said her husband firmly. "Never doubt that."

Jocelyn blushed, wondering what she had done to deserve such a man. She dressed his wound with the herbs that Mathieu had given her and bandaged it again with clean cloths. Whenever she looked up from her work, she saw Balian gazing at her with pure adoration. She leaned close to him when she finished. Her heart was hammering inside her breast. This was the boldest thing she had ever tried. Gently, she brushed her lips against his cheek, murmuring "I love you Balian." His response was to cup her face with a gentle calloused hand and then bent towards her hesitantly.

The Peasant Knight finally got to kiss his bride, to the adulations of the crowd around him.

* * *

As predicted, Luc told his father about what Balian had done. The baron was furious and he wanted to make an example of the blacksmith, but the bishop persuaded him to see reason and not to deal out unjust retribution against the engineer; a man who had won the hearts of the common people. "You need him to oversee the defences," said Gavin to Reginald. "There is too much work which need his skills and you cannot deny that he is talented. Besides, Lord Luc was the one who provoked the fight. We all know it. If you proceed to punish Balian, the people will rise up in revolt, and that is the last thing you need, milord."

Reginald snorted. He knew that the churchman was right. He needed the insolent young engineer. "I'll let it go this time," he growled "but you tell him, my lord bishop. You tell him that if he should do such a thing again, I won't hesitate to make an example of him and strip his skin from his body."

* * *

Jocelyn lay half asleep, curled up against Balian and using his chest as a pillow. His arm was wrapped around her protectively, even in sleep. She listened to his strong and steady heartbeat, knowing that she was safe. Opening one sleepy eye, she glanced at her husband's face. He looked so innocent like a sleeping angel. She closed her eye and smiled, pressing closer against him. 'I can't wait until this war is over and we can start living as a man and his wife ought to,' she thought.

The war finally ended at harvest time when Reginald made a deal with the lord of Bourges. Nièvre would pay Bourges with one hundred good horses and a large amount of gold and silver in exchange for the retreat of Gregoire's army. The villagers returned to their homes to find them ransacked. Many of the crops had been destroyed by the invaders.

Balian's forge and house had been stripped of everything valuable. His tools were gone and so was the stored food. "Sir," said Jean-Pierre anxiously. "What are we going to do? You can't work without your tools."

The blacksmith looked around. "All is as God wills is," he said with a sigh. "I will trade my sword and use what money I have left to buy tools and raw materials. I have some payment from working on the defences. We should be able to start over again. I promise that we won't starve."

"And I can forage for wild vegetables," said Jocelyn. "There are things out there which will stave off hunger, wild turnips and the like." She smiled at Balian. "At least we still have the land, and we have each other." The look she gave her husband was so tender that it seemed out of place in their difficult circumstances.

"Oh please," muttered Jean-Pierre, rolling his eyes. "Someone take them inside, before they go any further. People in love are so stupid."

Balian and Jocelyn were too absorbed in their love to hear the boy. Without warning, the blacksmith swept his wife off her feet and into his arms. She put her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder as he carried her into the cottage. Money and work could wait.

The invaders had left their old sleeping pallets alone. Once they were in the cottage, Balian kicked the door firmly shut and set Jocelyn down. She looked around. She had been in here so many times before but it was strange and thrilling to be inside alone with only Balian, knowing that this was now her cottage.

"This is all ours," said Balian. His eyes had taken on a dreamy expression. "All this space. Father and Jean-Pierre will live in the front. We have the bedroom to ourselves."

"It's still quite empty," said Jocelyn.

"It won't be for long," said Balian. "Soon there'll be little Balians and Jocelyns running around and keeping us busy. During the day, I'll teach the boys about my work while the girls can help you. At night, we'll sit by the fire, sharing stories...I'll tell them about how I met and fell in love with you, and about the time I went to war when they're older. They'll lead happy and peaceful lives. I'll protect all of us..." The young man was soon lost in his fantasy. He spread his cloak on the sleeping pallet they were to share and then lay down on his back with his hands behind his head.

Jocelyn sat down at the edge, feeling more than just a little awkward. When she thought of their much belated wedding night, she remembered Luc's rough and groping hands on her, squeezing her flesh as if it was dough, making her want to scream with fear. She knew her husband was not inexperienced in this aspect of life. His time in the army meant that he had often encountered women of ill repute and no doubt he had sometimes given into the temptation. What if Balian's touch triggered those memories? She couldn't bear the thought of them.

She felt him drawing her downwards to lie beside him. Tentatively, she did so. He moved slowly, and with much gentleness, but she couldn't help herself. She suppressed a shudder as his hand settled on her hip and stayed there. He leaned in and covered her lips with his. For a moment, she could forget about Luc as he kissed her deeply and tenderly, but the baron's son filled her mind again as her husband began to unlace her dress. She shoved him away and quickly got up, straightening her clothes and hair. Expecting him to be infuriated by her rejection, she stood with downcast eyes, waiting for harsh words and angry blows.

They never came. Balian got up. "What's wrong?" he asked softly. She didn't look at his face but she could hear the concern in his voice. He approached her and stopped when the toes of his shoes entered her line of sight. A gentle hand slipped under her chin and tilted her face so that he could look into her eyes. "I'm sorry if I alarmed you. Was I too...abrupt?"

"I...I..." she began. He throat closed up with emotion and she looked away. How was she to tell her husband that while he had been trying to consummate their marriage, she had been thinking of another man?

"It's him, isn't it?" he said. "What I did back there...it made you remember didn't it?"

Jocelyn began to sob. Would she never be free of that monster called Luc? Balian drew her into his arms and held her close to his heart as her tears soaked through his shirt. "I'm sorry, Balian..." she whispered "so sorry..."

"Don't be," said Balian. "You are not to blame. I should have known better."

"I just can't do this..." she continued.

"You don't have to do anything that you're not ready for," said Balian. "I am willing to wait. I've waited for you for so long already. What are a few more months or years?"

"Do you still love me, Balian, even after everything that's happened?"

"My promise still holds. I'd go to hell and back if you asked it of me. I just wish that there is something I can do to help you heal."

Jocelyn looked up at Balian's face. There was no lie in those liquid brown eyes. She knew it sounded pathetic, but it was the only thing she could think of. "Thank you," she said. "And I would never ask you to go to hell and back."

* * *

**A/N: **The end draws near. I can see it. Reviews? Pretty please? 


	16. Rise and Fall

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything from the film. I wish I did.

**Chapter 16: Rise and Fall**

Winter came far too swiftly with its blasts of icy wind and blizzards, scattering snow over a village already gripped in the cruel grasp of hunger. When it left, it took with it many lives, including that of the old smith. During winter, the earth had been too hard for a shovel to break through. The bodies had been left wrapped up and under grey storm clouds until the weather became milder and it was possible to finally lay them the rest in the bosom of the earth.

As the first shovelful of dirt fell on the old smith's shrouded body, Balian remembered everything that had happened between them. Theirs had been an unusual relationship, filled with every emotion imaginable between father and son; anger, disdain, hatred, understanding, misunderstanding, and then there had finally been acceptance, followed by respect and love. "Thank you," whispered the young man to the old smith who, in the end, had treated him like his own flesh and blood. "Thank you for everything."

Jocelyn, who had been standing dutifully behind her husband, now stepped forward to take his hand. "He was proud of you in the end" she said. Balian turned and gave her a small smile. He squeezed her hand affectionately.

After the harsh winter, his wife looked frailer than ever before. Her hands were like the delicate wings of baby birds; so thin they were almost transparent. He could feel every bone. After the first, rather disastrous attempt at consummating their marriage, Balian had not made any advances of that sort again. He would wait until she was ready for certain.

The blacksmith's wife wondered if he had forgotten totally, or had simply lost interest. A man ought to be more insistent. But Balian wasn't just any man. He was her gentle knight. Maybe he did things differently. They walked back to their cottage together. No words passed between them but Jocelyn felt the warmth of his love washing over her. Amidst the branches of the elm tree that had grown up with Balian, a pair of starlings was building their nest. Soon there would be tiny eggs and then...noisy little nestlings. She looked at her husband, knowing that he wanted more than anything to start a family of his own and be called 'Papa' by the high sweet voices of their children.

Jocelyn made her decision.

* * *

Balian lay with his eyes half closed as he waited for Jocelyn to join him in bed so that they could blow out the flame of the little lamp. He shifted to make room for her as she slid beneath the blanket. What he wasn't prepared for was the hesitant brush of her lips on his. He was instantly awake. 

Jocelyn froze as her husband looked at her in surprise. Had she been too forward? "Balian," she whispered. "Make me your wife. Claim me as your own."

"Are you certain you want to do this?" he asked.

"I've never been more certain in my life," said Jocelyn. She kissed him again, more firmly this time. He responded to her with eagerness, instilling in her feelings she'd never known before. For a moment, she thought she could glimpse Heaven.

* * *

It was well into the summer. The morning air was crisp when Jocelyn woke to the sound of the hammer on the anvil. She smiled. Poor Jean-Pierre, having to wake up so early to suit Balian's habits. She sat up, and immediately, her vision swam and she felt nauseous. She retched over the side of the sleeping pallet and empted her stomach of the remains of last night's meal. The blacksmith's wife wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. What was wrong with her? She had been fine the day before. 

And then she remembered something that her mother had told her, about how to tell if she was with child or not. When had her last monthly bleeding been? Around five weeks ago, she guessed. Jocelyn decided not to tell Balian until she was certain that she was pregnant. She didn't want to give him false hope.

* * *

Autumn. Jocelyn was sure of it now. Balian's child was growing inside her belly. That night, as Balian was preparing for sleep, she decided to share the tidings with him. "Balian, sit down," she said, patting the place beside her on their sleeping pallet. With his shirt unbuttoned, he looked absolutely delectable, but she refused to let her thoughts wander. "I have something to tell you." Immediately, he was concerned. 

"Is something wrong?" he asked, sitting down beside her. She smiled secretively.

"Nothing," she replied. "All's right with the world." She picked up his hand and placed it on her belly. He looked confused for a moment, and then it dawned on him and his eyes widened.

"You're...you're..." he stammered, an awkward boy once more.

"Yes, Balian, my dear husband," said Jocelyn. "I'm carrying your child—our child."

"Christ..." breathed Balian in awe. "I'm going to be a father..." He leapt to his feet, excitement shining in his eyes. "I'm going to be a father!"

"Hush, Balian," said Jocelyn, although her eyes were dancing with mirth. "You're loud enough to wake your parents!"

"I don't care! I want the whole world to know! We're going to have a baby! I'm going to be a father!"

"Yes! Congratulations and all!" called Jean-Pierre from the front of the cottage. "Now can we all sleep in peace? You can tell the world and wake the dead in the morning for all I care but please, not before!"

"Don't you understand, Jean-Pierre?" cried Balian. "I'm going to be a father!"

"Madame, can you hit him on the head with the chamber pot or something?" said Jean-Pierre. "Not too hard, mind you, just to make him shut up."

Jocelyn caught hold of her overexcited husband and pulled him down onto their sleeping pallet. He lay there, gasping. "How many months?" he asked.

"A bit more than two; not quite three," said Jocelyn. "You seem very happy about it."

"I'm not happy. I'm absolutely goddamned ecstatic! I've been waiting for this for so long and now it seems that God has finally answered my prayers."

"Then maybe you shouldn't cuss then, my dear husband."

Balian rolled over to look at her. "Let's think of some names," he said.

"Balian, the child won't be born until six months later at the very least..." said Jocelyn.

"So? We can always be prepared, just in case we have twins or something."

"Twins? Balian, you are impossible." Jocelyn knew that he would not stop pestering her until she gave into his demand. "All right, then. Names. If it's a boy, maybe we can name him after your father and you."

"Three Balians in a row?" said Balian. "I think two is enough. It gets confusing."

"Fine. What do you want?"

"Auberon," said Balian.

"After the knight who had you flogged?"

"Oh no, Jocelyn. He was more than just that. He was my mentor. He looked after me. He was like my father in some ways. Our baby will be called Auberon in his honour, if it's a boy."

"What if it's a girl? You _do_ know that there is a chance the child is a girl."

Balian was thoughtful. "What do you think?" he finally asked. "I'm not very good with girls' names."

"If we have a daughter, I want to call her Solange," said Jocelyn.

"After my mother?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. I just thought you might want to use some names from your side of the family."

"Madame Solange was more like a mother to me than my own mother. If I can name her granddaughter after her, my heart will be glad."

"Mother would have loved to see her grandchildren, and Father would've also."

"They will see the children, wherever they are now."

"Tonight, Jocelyn, I think I'm the happiest man alive. I feel as if my soul has taken flight and is soaring above the clouds as we speak."

"You're dreaming, that's what. Get some sleep. You're the most horrible poet I know."

"I'll dream of our baby."

"You do that, Balian. You do that."

* * *

Winter. Jocelyn's belly was starting to swell. She bore it proudly. It was every woman's aspiration, to become a mother. Balian was keeping count of the days by carving marks on his work bench. He thought he was being subtle and that no one knew, but subtlety had never been one of the blacksmith's strengths. Everyone knew how eager he was to hold his babe in his arms and they were all happy for him. Even the estranged Thomas had offered his congratulations. Only Guillaume was unhappy about the baby. Gripped in the throes of jealousy, the priest avoided his brother as much as possible. 

Gavin remembered with nostalgia the day he had baptized Balian as a tiny babe. Now, in a few months' time, he would be baptizing Balian's child. 'How time has flown,' he thought. He was no longer the young priest that he had been. His joints were stiffening and his hair was almost completely white. He prayed to God that after his death, Guillaume would not be chosen to replace him as bishop.

* * *

Jocelyn was sweeping the floor when sudden pains gripped her belly. Something was not right. It was too early for her to go into labour. She dropped the broom. "Balian!" she screamed. "Balian!" The sound of the hammer stopped. Moments later, her husband was there, holding her in his arms as their child bled out onto the floor of their cottage. She clutched him and sobbed in pain and grief as her muscles spasmed and strained, rejecting the dead infant in her womb. 

For Balian, the world faded into hues of grey. No light could penetrate the dark veil which had settled over his mind. His baby was gone. It would never catapult peas all over the floor or call him Papa, running awkwardly into his arms when he returned from the forge. He did not even know whether its name was Auberon or Solange.

Jean-Pierre had run to fetch the midwife, but they all knew that hope was lost. Balian carried Jocelyn to their sleeping pallet and the midwife chased him away. Arnaud, Jean-Pierre and Thomas were waiting outside. "I'm sorry, Balian," said Thomas, gripping the blacksmith's shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. Arnaud was too grim to offer his condolences.

"Be strong for my sister," said the crippled carpenter. "She needs you now more than ever,"

Balian didn't respond to them. He was struggling to find light in this dark day. Why had God cursed him? It was true that he had sinned many times, but why punish his child and his wife? Didn't God have any mercy for them? Did He even care? He went back up to the forge where the fire was still burning. Gavin was waiting for him there. "My lord Bishop," said the blacksmith, bowing stiffly.

"My prayers are with you, Balian," said Gavin. "But remember, you must never lose hope. You and Jocelyn are young and strong, and there will be other children. What God takes, God will always give back in more abundance."

"Why did He take my baby?" said Balian. "It's true, I'm a sinner and I'm ready to answer for all my sins, but why punish my innocent wife and child instead of me? It isn't fair, Excellency!"

"Life is seldom fair, my good son," said Gavin sympathetically. "The Good Lord works in mysterious ways which mere mortal men cannot possibly comprehend. We must simply place our trust in Him, and we will get what we deserve in the end. Now, have courage, Balian, for your wife's sake if not for your own. She needs you to help her through this. Go to her now."

Balian heard Jocelyn's sobs before he saw her. The midwife was stripping their sleeping pallet of bloodstained linens. The blacksmith's wife was curled up on another pallet with her dishevelled hair veiling her tearstained face. He went over to her and without a word, took her in his arms and let her sob against him until her tears were spent. "Why?" she whispered. "Why our baby?"

"I don't know," said Balian honestly. His voice was raw from his contained grief. He longed to cry and weep with his wife, but she needed him to be strong.

"God is punishing me," said Jocelyn. "I am unclean..."

"No, listen to me," said Balian. "Whatever happened was not your fault. _This_ is not your fault. Do not claim guilt for what you had no control over." He rocked her as if she was a child. "There will be other children. I promise."

They stayed like this until Jocelyn fell asleep from exhaustion. Balian let her sleep. He picked up the bloody cloths that the midwife had left in the corner. The dark red stains were all that remained of his precious baby. He swallowed the lump in his throat. He would not show weakness. Hell, he couldn't afford to. He took the cloths outside to the forge and threw them into the fire. The flames consumed them, just as fate had consumed his dreams. Soon, there was nothing left but charred black remains and bitter fragments of lost hopes.

Jean-Pierre watched all this from behind a wooden post. Balian did not even see him; he was mired so deeply in his pain. The boy had never seen the blacksmith so weak and vulnerable, not even when he had taken that terrible shoulder wound. He wished he could offer the man some comfort, as Balian had once offered it to him, but he didn't know what to do.

* * *

The news of Jocelyn's miscarriage spread. The rumours which had remained dormant since she had married Balian flared up again, more intense and malicious than before. In his homily, Guillaume spoke of children conceived and born out of wedlock. They were cursed by their parents' sins and were destined to be punished throughout their lives. Whispers about the blacksmith's dubious history travelled from lip to ear and to lip again, although none could say that he was a bastard. The old smith had claimed him as his own son. However, Guillaume's barely disguised barb had done its damage. Balian lost respect in the village. People no longer remembered him as the Peasant Knight. None but his friends and his wife would meet his eyes. Some of the bolder villagers spat at his feet when he passed them. It was as if he had returned to his childhood again. 

Months passed, and it was summer once more. The starlings had returned to raise their chicks in Balian's elm tree. Balian watched them wistfully. Their last brood had been successful; all of them had survived to become adults. The fire in the forge was not lit. It was Sunday; a day for rest and prayer. The blacksmith lifted his eyes to the sky. "God," he whispered. "Send me a sign. Show me that You care."

Jocelyn came up from behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. He turned and gave her a gentle smile. His wife was paler than she had ever been before, and her eyes were haunted by the ghost of their dead child. "I wish I was more," she said. "I wish I was a better wife to you, Balian."

"You are the best wife a man can have," said Balian, kissing her hand and letting his lips linger on her upturned palm. "I can ask for no more." He gazed at her with his liquid brown eyes full of sincerity. Jocelyn's mouth was quivering; the gossips had taken their toll on her.

"Love me, Balian," she whispered, full of desperation. Her husband didn't need more encouragement.

* * *

**A/N: **Ummm...yeah. Angsty. Reviews please? 


	17. Broken Dreams

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Balian or anything from the film. I'm only borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them.

**Chapter 17: Broken Dreams**

Balian glanced at Jocelyn as she pulled weeds viciously from the soil and tossed them over her shoulder. Her moods had been unpredictable for the past few days. She often snapped at him and Jean-Pierre and then suddenly bursting into tears. And then she had been feeling sick in the mornings. It was so unusual for his sweet-natured wife. Dared he hope? He smiled. All was as God willed it. He could only pray.

The blacksmith washed his hands in the water trough and wiped his fingers on his sweat-stained undershirt. There was no more work to be done for the time being. He made his way down the steep path to the garden and came up from behind Jocelyn. "What have these poor plants ever done to you, my love?" he said playfully.

"They annoy me," said Jocelyn with a scowl. "There are so many of them!" She glanced at her amused husband. "What are you doing, you big oaf, standing idle like a tree?" she snapped. "If you're not going to play with your toys in the forge then you can at least help me with these goddamned weeds!"

"Tsk," said Balian, teasing his wife. "Such a tongue for a woman." Jocelyn glared at him.

"You think you're funny, don't you?" she demanded, poking him sharply in the ribs. He doubled over with laughter. Jocelyn tried to maintain her scowl but the young man's laughter was infectious. She reached out with dirt stained hands and dug her fingers into his sides, making him produce something between a squawk and a squeal.

"I'll teach you to tease me!" she said, tickling her husband with fervour. He fell breathlessly to the ground, fending her off half-heartedly. She straddled him and sat on his firm belly, trying to reach his underarms with her fingers.

"Stop, I beg you!" gasped Balian between bouts of laughter. "I yield! I yield!" Tears streamed from his eyes.

"So you yield, do you, you scoundrel?" said Jocelyn mischievously.

"The posture that you're in would overthrow any man," said Balian, referring to their less-than-decent position. He grinned. "Who am I to resist the power of your seductiveness?"

"You are the most shameless and lovable man in France, Balian!" said Jocelyn in frustration and affection, preparing to tickle him again, but she suddenly felt faint. She lifted her hand to her head and then fell forwards, into the arms of her very concerned husband.

"Jocelyn? What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you ill? Tell me."

"I don't know," she said. "I just felt dizzy."

"Here, I'll get you to the cottage. You should rest for a while; I think you have been working too hard, my dear wife."

Jocelyn giggled at her husband's dramatic words. "I thought hard work was a virtue, especially in women," she said.

"I believe in moderation," said Balian, carrying her inside, cradling her in his arms as if she was a little girl.

"Oh, I do believe that there are some things which you don't want in moderation," said Jocelyn coyly.

"Indeed, that is quite true. There are some things without which I will be quite happy," said Balian with mirthful shining eyes as he set her down on their sleeping pallet. "Now stay here and be a good girl while I fetch the wise-woman."

"Balian, I'm fine."

"No harm in making sure. If the army has taught me anything, it is that it is better to worry too much than to not worry at all."

The wise-woman, who was also the midwife, confirmed Balian's hopes. Jocelyn was indeed with child again and was due to give birth in late winter. After last time's heartache, this was the most welcoming news. "I'm going to look after you and our babe very carefully," he told his wife. "I'll be the best father and husband."

"You already are the best husband," said Jocelyn, smiling with such joy that she had not felt in a long time. "Surely you can't do anymore than what you are doing now."

"There is always room for improvement."

"I thought you believed in moderation."

"There are some things which just can't be in moderation. I really want to see our child grow up...happily. You don't know how much I want that."

"I think I understand. You want to give our child what you didn't have."

"In a nutshell." Balian kissed his wife on her soft silky cheek. She snuggled up to him, safe in his arms and feeling as if nothing could take away her happiness.

* * *

Balian could not remember being happier as he watched his wife plant a little seedling in the centre of their small garden. It was a cherry tree. Her belly was round and swollen with their growing child, and wisps of hair the colour of ripe wheat escaped from her cap. The blacksmith's face was still damp from washing, but the summer breeze was quickly drying his skin.

Jocelyn straightened, with some difficulty, and arched her back to relieve her cramped muscles and spine. One hand rested lightly on her belly, unconsciously protective of the child in her womb. She looked up and saw her husband, with his loose white —although stained— undershirt flapping in the breeze and a contented grin on his face. She smiled mischievously at him. He was such a beautiful man. 'That there is your father,' she thought to her baby 'and you will grow up to be just as perfect, my darling.'

* * *

_Two months later..._

Jocelyn sat sewing by the fire while her husband whittled away at a piece of wood. Jean-Pierre was drying the dinner plates. Six months pregnant, Jocelyn was large and blooming. Her skin had taken on the glow of an expectant mother. Suddenly, she dropped her needlework and cried out in surprise as she felt a slight fluttering inside her womb, like the beat of a butterfly's wings. Her hand flew to her belly.

Balian's face was drained of blood when he heard his wife cry out. Immediately he was kneeling at her feet with dread filling his heart. Surely God would not be so cruel to him. "Jocelyn," he whispered. "Is it the baby?"

His wife nodded, breathing rapidly in excitement, something which Balian mistook for as a sign of fear and pain. Before he could jump to any conclusions, however, she laid his fears to rest. "He kicked me," she said.

The blacksmith took an expression of disbelief. "Truly?" he breathed.

"Why would I lie to you? Come, feel for yourself."

Tentatively, as if he did not trust himself, the young man placed his hands over Jocelyn's swollen belly. It was more like a slight touch than a kick, but it was there. His baby was touching him. He grinned in wonder. His eyes shone with tears of delight. At last. "Hello, little one," he murmured. He took his hands away and then laid his ear on Jocelyn's belly. He could hear it. His baby was moving inside his wife's womb. "You're a restless one, aren't you?"

"He can't hear you, Balian," said Jocelyn with a small laugh.

"How do you know it's a boy?"

"It's a mother's intuition. Besides, you don't seem like the type of man who would have a daughter as a firstborn."

"Looks can be deceiving, my dear wife."

* * *

Winter. Village life had returned to normal after the rowdy Christmas celebrations. Balian was in his forge, working once more on the brackets for the new church. He was hoping that his baby would be baptized inside a real church. His mind was far away, with his baby, who was due any day now. Jocelyn was as irritable and adorable as ever. The later stages of pregnancy had confined her to the cottage during the festive season, and she had not been too pleased about that. Besides, Balian had refused to let her walk in the snow, which had always been something that she enjoyed doing.

The sun was setting and outside, snowflakes floated down to coat the dirt path and the thatched roofs. "That's enough work for today," said Balian, finishing the last bracket. Jean-Pierre sighed in relief as he stopped working the bellows.

"Does that have to be my permanent task?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow. "It's exhausting."

Balian raised an eyebrow. "When I was an apprentice, that was practically what I did all day long," he said. "My father never worked the bellows once he took me on. At least I let you rest."

"Still, can I start doing some actual work instead of that?"

"Not until you stop complaining. Besides, working the bellow will put some muscle on that bony frame of yours." Balian put out the fire and took off his apron, hanging it from a nail embedded in one of the old wooden posts. The two of them, master and apprentice, went back down to the cottage, still bantering with each other.

"I'm going to ask Madame to intercede on my behalf," said Jean-Pierre when it became obvious that Balian had no intention of giving in. "You never say no to her."

"That's called cheating, my _very_ young apprentice," said the blacksmith. "It's not what an honourable man would do. Besides, my wife never makes unreasonable requests."

"I'm only eight years younger than you, oh ancient master. And what about last week, when Madame demanded that _you_ cook? I don't think that was very reasonable."

"That was an exception. We all have our bad days."

Jean-Pierre snorted. "You think light shines from the ground that she walks on. You're such an old-fashioned romantic, sir."

Balian took a half-hearted swipe at Jean-Pierre, who easily ducked. "You're losing your touch, sir," he teased, dancing out of the way.

The blacksmith grinned wickedly. "Is that right?" he said, advancing towards the boy, who quickly put up his hands in surrender.

"Just joking," he said. "Don't hurt me!"

"Come on," said Balian. "If my wife is not have an exceptional day, she'll have dinner waiting for us. I'm starving."

"That's strange. _I'm_ the one who's supposed to say that."

* * *

The quiet of the night surrounded him like a comforting blanket. Balian gave a little grunt and settled again on the sleeping pallet. He vaguely registered that his nose was feeling a bit cold. The next thing he was aware of was his wife shaking him awake, urgently. "Balian!" she gasped. "The baby's coming!"

The blacksmith was instantly awake. He threw on his clothes and pulled his boots onto his feet. "I'll get the midwife," he said, racing out of the house. The midwife was none too pleased at being woken up in the middle of a cold dark winter night by someone hammering at her door so loudly that it almost flew off its hinges but she went with Balian to his cottage. The noise had woken up half the village. Jocelyn's mother hurried out, clutching a shawl around her shoulders.

"Is it the baby?" she demanded.

"Yes," said Balian, not bothering to stop. His mother-in-law ran after him, excitement flushing her face.

"Congratulations, my friend!" called Thomas. Balian grinned at him.

"I pray to God that by the end of this I'll have a lusty nephew who looks like my best friend," said Arnaud.

The midwife and Jocelyn's mother locked the men outside. Jean-Pierre wrapped his blanket tightly around himself and shivered. "Can I light the fire in the forge?" he asked. The blacksmith nodded. At the moment, he would have said yes if his apprentice had asked him to get onto all fours and pretend to be a donkey. He was too nervous to think clearly.

The young man paced impatiently outside his cottage, leaving a dark trail of footprints in the snow. He could hear his wife crying out in pain and more than anything, he wanted to be there to sooth her as she had comforted him when he had been wounded. White flakes settled in his dark sleep-tangled locks but his mind was too occupied for him to feel the cold.

Hues of purple and red began to tint the eastern horizon. The new day was dawning. It was well into the morning when the door of the cottage opened. It was the midwife, carrying a still and silent cloth wrapped bundle. Her face was grave.

"What's wrong?" demanded Balian. "My wife...is she..."

"She's asleep," said the woman in a low voice. "Her mother is with her."

"And my baby..."

The woman handed him the sad little bundle without a word. His baby. The little hands were already beginning to grow cold and its eyes with dark lashes, closed as if in sleep, would never see the loving faces of its loving parents.

"It's a boy," said the midwife. Balian's hands were shaking as he held his stillborn child. Why? Why? _Why_?

"His name is Auberon," he whispered. His little son. He looked so perfect, even in death. The dark wisps of soft hair, so like his father's, would have become a mop of unruly curls. The tiny perfect hands would have soon learnt to build things out of wooden blocks or even hold a hammer, but that would never happen.

With a rough calloused thumb, he gently stroked his baby's lifeless cheek. A lump built up in his throat. He wanted to weep, to scream, to display his emotions in a way which was unacceptable for a man. He had not been able to protect his child; not against this unexplained divine wrath. 'But it isn't unexplained,' said a small voice inside his head. 'You know perfectly well why your family is being punished. It's you. You're a bastard, Balian. You're forever damned.'

"God is unjust," he whispered hoarsely around the lump in his throat. It hurt to keep his feelings pent up inside him. A single tear slid down his cheek. Still cradling his precious baby, he brushed it away angrily. Unbeknownst to him, his apprentice was watching. The boy felt like an intruder as he witnessed the unfolding scene. He could feel the blacksmith's grief and anger, even from so far away. Silently, he slipped off to find the bishop, and returned moments later with the churchman in tow. Balian still hadn't moved from where he stood with the tiny corpse in his arms.

"Balian," said Gavin softly, approaching the young man with much care. "The child is at peace. This is only the shell which housed its soul."

"My boy will never see Heaven," said Balian. His voice was so stark and robbed of hope that it alarmed Gavin.

"God is good and merciful," said the bishop, trying his best to comfort him. "He will not condemn an innocent baby."

"But the church says that my son will never see Heaven. I am a bastard and he hadn't been baptized when he died."

Gavin had nothing to say to that. He simply laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. "You need to lay him to rest," he said. "Let the boy sleep. You should save your strength for yourself and your wife."

* * *

On a dreary sunless day, a lone man stood in the cemetery. At his feet was a patch of newly dug earth and a small mound of rocks to mark its place. Balian's head was bowed. Alone, he let his grief flow freely. Snow fell, covering the earth and everything on it.

* * *

**A/N: **One more chapter to go. I hope you guys are still enjoying this.


	18. Heaven Lost

**Prelude to Heaven**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Balian or anyone from the film. I wish I did.

**Chapter 18: Heaven Lost**

Something was wrong. Jocelyn could feel it in her heart. The cottage was quiet; too quiet. "Balian?" she called. There was no answer. Where could he possibly be? The baby's basket beside their sleeping pallet was empty, and the little coat she had made for their child still lay where it had been the night before, abandoned. Who would have taken the child out into the cold without dressing it in something warm? She tried to get up, but her legs would not support her. Where was her husband? Where was her baby?

The door to the cottage opened, letting cold draughts flood the dwelling. Balian came in, looking as if he hadn't slept for days. His shoulders were slumped and his steps were heavy, as if he was carrying a great weight on his back. With his head bowed, he did not notice that she was awake until she spoke.

"Balian, where's the baby?" she said.

He looked up with bloodshot eyes. "His name is Auberon," he whispered.

"Where is he?" Jocelyn demanded once more, starting to panic. "I need to see him. Where is he, Balian?"

"He's..." The young man's grief overwhelmed him once more and robbed him of his voice. He swallowed several times, his throat moving up and down. "He's..." It came out as a grating whisper. It pained him to say it, and he just couldn't voice it. He put his face in his hands and took a deep ragged breath, sinking to his knees in defeat. To Jocelyn's horror, he began to weep. And she knew.

Jocelyn screamed. The sharp grating sound made Balian jerk back into reality. He couldn't break. His wife needed him, depended on him. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to her, taking her into his arms. Her hands beat feebly at his chest and then she sank against his body, wracked by violent sobs.

"It's my fault!" she cried. "My baby..."

"No..." said Balian. His face was wet with tears also. "It's not you..." They clung to each other in the gloom, desperately trying to find hope, but they could see none. Each blamed themselves, and Balian was beginning to blame God.

* * *

The forge stayed silent for three days. The blacksmith was seldom seen and when they did see him, the villagers averted their gazes, as if looking at him would bring his curse and ill-fortune upon them as well. Of the blacksmith's wife there was no sign at all. 

Guillaume was secretly very pleased. Finally his bastard brother was getting what he deserved. The rumours, silenced by his heroics during the two wars, had awakened again, louder and stronger than ever. God knew how hard he had tried to fuel them during his sermons about infidelity. His cultivation of these rumours was finally producing fruit.

On the fourth day, the blacksmith came out of hiding; his wife had convinced him that she didn't need him by her side for every moment of the day. "I'll be fine, Balian," she said, ushering him out of the door. "You have work to do. God no longer gives us manna. We'll starve if you don't work the forge." She even managed to smile at him, even though it was terribly forced. Balian remained unconvinced, but he could see the reasoning in Jocelyn's words.

"If for any reason, you need me, just come and get me," he said. "Promise you'll look after yourself."

"I promise," said Jocelyn, even though she felt bad for lying to him, but there was no other choice. She needed to get him away. The young woman already had a plan forming in her mind. She understood very well that she was the reason they were being punished. She was impure; befouled. She was the one thing holding Balian back and denying him the life that he deserved —happiness with a worthy woman who could give him the sons and daughters that he so desperately desired. And she was convinced that she did not want to live this life anymore, no matter how much she loved her husband. She couldn't bear it, hounded by malicious rumours and facing one disappointment after another until all the love and patience that she had between her and Balian were spent, leaving only bitter lees.

"I'm sorry, Balian," she whispered into the emptiness of the cottage. "I'm sorry for everything. Please forgive me, but I can't go on like this." She found a rope, fashioned a noose out of it with shaking hands and hung it from the rafters. She pushed a stool beneath it and stood on it so that she could reach the loop of rope at the end.

For a moment, as she slipped the noose over her head, she hesitated. In truth, she was reluctant to leave Balian. He was so good to her, and she loved him. But her fear of disappointment and the malicious rumours strengthened her sill. Soon, she would be with her baby, and she would not be able to hear the accusing whispers of the villagers. "Goodbye, Balian," said Jocelyn softly, and she kicked the stool over.

* * *

Night fell, and Balian felt better than he had for days. The monotony of work was a relief after the pain of losing his baby son. It stopped him from having to think; to wonder and to regret. Jean-Pierre volunteered to stay behind and tidy up the forge, so the smith went home alone. He opened the door. It was utterly dark inside. The fire in the hearth had not been lit. At once, he knew that something was not quite right. "Jocelyn?" he called. There was no answer, only the howling of the wind outside. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he could make out the dark outline of a stool lying on its side on the dirt floor. 

His eyes travelled upwards...to his wife's dangling body, her pale face tinted with blue and her empty eyes dull and lifeless, staring down at him. For a moment, he stood as still as a statue of stone. His body would not move as this turn of events sank in. A thousand thoughts flitted through his mind. Images of Jocelyn laughing, smiling, planting the tree, their courtship and their baby passed before his eyes. And then they all faded, leaving him with cold harsh reality, and his wife's corpse, hanging from the rafters like some giant grotesque fruit.

He opened his mouth as if to scream, but his voice escaped him. No sound came out. He could only form his wife's name with his lips. Snatching the bread knife from the table, he sprang into action, climbing onto the stool and sawing desperately at the rope around Jocelyn's neck. Her body was cold and stiff against him. She fell with a dull thud. Balian dropped the knife. He forgot about everything and collapsed onto his knees, taking his wife into his arms and holding her closely as if his love and the warmth of his sincerity could somehow bring her back.

The tears finally came. Silently, he wept, rocking back and forth with the cold lifeless body in his arms. Time slipped by unnoticed. That was how Jean-Pierre found him. The boy gasped when he saw what had happened. The rope, still hanging from the rafters, was testament enough to what Jocelyn had done. He tried to pull his master away, but the blacksmith clung on stubbornly, as if he could somehow protect her from the horrors which now surely awaited her in Hell.

Jean-Pierre did not know what to do. The last thing Balian needed was for the whole village to find out and gather to see the spectacle. But the blacksmith desperately needed help, something which his apprentice did not know how to give in a time like this. Jean-Pierre ran to fetch Arnaud and Bishop Gavin. Thomas the baker had a kind heart but his mouth worked faster than his mind.

Despite the boy's efforts to keep this inconspicuous, his master made it impossible. When Arnaud and the bishop tried to pry Jocelyn away from Balian, the blacksmith fought like a mountain lion defending its cubs. Maddened by grief, he could not see that they were trying to help him. The villagers gathered to investigate the noise. Other men lent their help and finally succeeded in pulling the stiff corpse from Balian's arms.

The blacksmith gave an anguished cry and lashed out wildly. His grief gave him rage, and his rage made him strong. Gavin had no choice but to order him to be taken to the old barn which served as the village's prison, where he could not harm others or himself. In this state, he was very likely to try and follow his wife.

Wrapped in a dark cloak, Guillaume stood some distance apart from the crowd, hunched against the cold. He could not help but smile as he watched his bastard brother's misfortune further unfold. 'You can't escape God's wrath,' thought the priest. With Balian thus incapacitated and incarcerated, the forge would go to him, the old smith's rightful heir. Guillaume had no desire to work but he did not doubt that the forge, the cottage and the land would sell for a good amount. "Father Guillaume," said Gavin as the men dragged Balian away. "Take care of your sister's affairs." Guillaume hurried to do the bishop's bidding, wondering why the churchman cared about Balian so much.

As the door of the makeshift prison was closed, Balian fell into a silent stupor. He had sunken into the grip of his memories. And they were good memories. In his mind, he relived the day when his beautiful wife, swollen with child, had planted that little cherry tree in their garden. She had looked so radiant that day, so happy, like one of God's angels. 'Was that why You took her away?' he wondered. 'Was she too good for me? Too good for the world?' In his memories, he saw her smile at him, and he smiled back. This memory he relived over and over again, trying to stop time and hold onto those precious few moments when he had glimpsed Heaven.

* * *

A cold day dawned, bringing with it no light. At the crossroads, a group of men were digging a grave at the foot of a large stone cross. A body, shrouded in white, lay nearby. There was the sound of horses neighing. A mounted company was riding towards the village. One of the riders, a squire from his garb, urged his horse forward. "Crusaders," said the tall and thin gravedigger, with a notch in his ear. He regarded the warriors of God with awe. 

"Clear the road if you will," said the squire to the priest who was supervising the burial. Guillaume nodded at the gravediggers, who hurriedly moved out of the way to let the company pass. At the head of the riders was a dignified old knight wearing a rich cloak trimmed with fur. On his belt, he bore a beautifully crafted sword with a ruby in its hilt.

* * *

**Epilogue**

_Ten years later..._

A young boy was picking cherries in the sunlit garden. Red juice stained his mouth and hands. His father stood in what remained of an old burnt down forge and watched him with amusement. Around them, roses bloomed, wild and unchecked, giving off their array of scents. The boy waved at his father. "Papa! Come down and have some cherries!" he shouted. "They are the best!"

Balian grinned. "Even better than oranges?" he said to his son.

Young Barisian shrugged. He had blue eyes, just like his mother Sibylla, but his hair and his grin were identical to his father's. "That's different," he said. "Oranges are oranges; they're the taste of the East. That's what you said, isn't it, Papa?"

"Indeed, it is," said Balian. "My father told that to me when I ate my first orange."

"Well, these cherries, they're the taste of the West!" declared Barisian. He held out a handful of the plump red fruits to his father. Tentatively, Balian took one. He had never dared to eat the fruit from this particular tree before. He slipped it into his mouth. Juice burst onto his tongue as he bit into it. It tasted of love and passion, of hope and disappointment, of joy and sorrow. But not of regret.

"Did you like it?" asked Barisian, having consumed another handful himself.

"I did," said Balian. "These are very special cherries, because they come from a very special tree." He smiled gently at his son. "One day, I will tell you the story, but not now."

"What is this place anyway?" asked Barisian as they climbed the steep path which led to the forge and the village beyond it.

"I lived here when I was young."

"You mean, before all your adventures? That's odd. Why would you live in a place like that? I mean, it's very nice, but the house is not."

"I was lucky to have a house, but you won't understand until you're older...much older."

"You always say that."

They passed villagers on the dirt track as they continued on their way back to the castle at the top of the hill. Men and women alike bowed respectfully to them, and Balian nodded in acknowledgement. He was still not used to it, even after the three years of being the Baron of Ibelin. Nièvre would never achieve the harmony which Ibelin had had, but it did not stop the new baron from trying to establish a haven. He had returned almost two years ago to his home with a young son in tow, to find that Reginald de Nièvre —his uncle on his father's side— ailing and heirless. Balian's father Godfrey had killed Luc in that fateful skirmish. It made Balian uncomfortable to think of Luc as his cousin, but that was the ugly truth. The only way Reginald had been able to stop outsiders from getting their hands on his family inheritance had been by making his newly returned nephew his heir, just shortly before he had succumbed to his illness.

The villagers had been very nervous at this strange turn of events. Balian owed them nothing, and they had not been kind to him when he had been one of them. They had condemned him for being what he was; a nobleman's son born out of wedlock. Much to their relief, the new baron held no grudges. He was just, and he made their lives better. They now loved him.

Jean-Pierre, now the village's much respected blacksmith, stood outside the new forge. He had a little fair-haired and blue-eyed babe in the crook of his arm; his second child. "I swear, Jean-Pierre, he looks just like you," said Balian, going over to speak with his former apprentice. He tickled the baby under the chin, making it laugh and gurgle.

"The little thing has some appetite," said Jean-Pierre heartily. "So when do you think there'll be little brown-eyed tots with curly dark hair running about up in the castle?"

"There is already a little tot with dark curls running around up there," said Balian, ruffling his son's hair.

"Papa!" protested Barisian. "I'm grown up now!"

The two men laughed, and then more seriously, Balian added "I have no idea what is going to happen." He sighed. "I wasn't born for this."

"You're the best lord this place has ever had," Jean-Pierre assured him. "How many other lords can boast that the peasants loved him?"

"Not many, I guess," said Balian. "But all this politics, it's so confusing!" He was in the middle of marriage negotiations with the neighbouring count, old Roger de Cormier, whose son had also been killed in that forest skirmish ten years ago. Now the count only had an heiress, and he was eager to pair her off with a young lord who had both a good reputation and endless potential. Balian, however, was not so eager to be married to her, although he knew that this alliance would be priceless.

Jean-Pierre and Balian spoke about other more mundane things for a while and then Balian excused himself. There was a lot of work to be done back at the castle. "Papa?" asked Barisian in all seriousness. "Where did I come from?"

"The Holy Land," said Balian promptly.

"Is that where everyone goes to get babies?" asked the boy. "Why did Uncle Jean-Pierre tell me about the stork then?"

Balian's mind worked quickly. He would kill Jean-Pierre later. "The storks live in the Holy Land, and they look after the babies, until their parents go and get them."

"Oh," said Barisian. "How do you know?"

"Well, Baby Jesus came from the Holy Land."

"Then what does Mary have to do with it? Why do people praise her if all she did was go and get Jesus from the storks?"

Balian searched his mind for an answer as he tried not to blaspheme. He could feel his face growing hot. That had not happened in a while. Before he got the chance to answer his son's innocent question, his steward Marc came running down the hill, looking flustered. "My lord!" he shouted. "Bad news!"

"What's the matter?" asked Balian.

"The Pope, he's just issued a Papal Bull, excommunicating you from the Church and labelling you a traitor to Christendom! There's a price on your head and they've sent out the Inquisitors! What have you done to make him do this to you?"

Balian cursed inwardly. So Rome had finally discovered that he was alive and well in France, and the hypocrites had started the hunt for the man who had surrendered Jerusalem to Salah-al-Din.

"What will you do, my lord?" said the steward. Balian was troubled. He couldn't just leave his people to the mercy of the other lords. He glanced down at his son. He couldn't let the Roman wolves harm his son either.

"Marc, take anything that you might need and take Barisian to England," said Balian. "No one will look for him there. Once I have settled my affairs, I will follow you."

"Papa, I don't want to go," said Barisian. "I want to stay with you."

"Do it for me, _mon petit bonhomme_," said Balian, getting down onto one knee so that he could look the boy in the eye. "I'll be there soon." The boy threw his arms around his father's neck and hugged him hard. Balian held onto his son, not ever wanting to let him go and yet for the boy's sake he must. He kissed Barisian's forehead. "Do you remember the code?" he asked. The child managed a teary smile.

"Anyone who falls behind is left behind?" he said.

"No, not that one. You're _not_ a pirate."

"Uh huh, I remember the knight's code."

"Good. If you remember that, I'll always be there with you."

* * *

From the battlements, Balian watched his loyal steward take his son to safety. He wondered if he would ever see his beloved child again. 'God, what is it that you want of me?' he asked. There was a breeze, and he fancied that he could hear an answer but whatever it was, he could not decipher it.

_**Fin**_

**A/N: **_And_ I end with a cliffie. The epilogue is linked to the Chance Encounter series, and no, I do not plan on leaving this story like this. We all want to know what happens with Balian vs. Pope (at least I do, LOL). So never fear, there will be an instalment, just not that soon. Keep a look out for it. And thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed! I really appreciate the reviews. They give me inspiration and incentive to continue writing.


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